


Wine-Dark Sea

by incalzando



Category: Pacific Rim (Movies)
Genre: (it's just a fancy way to say band), (oh my god they were roommates), Anal Sex, Anxiety, First Kiss, First Time, Light Angst, M/M, Making music is a metaphor for drifting, Mutual Pining, Slow Burn, Wind Ensemble, Wind Ensemble AU, and they were ROOMMATES
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2018-10-28
Updated: 2019-07-07
Packaged: 2019-08-08 16:30:07
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 7
Words: 36,537
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/16432931
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/incalzando/pseuds/incalzando
Summary: One cannot find their way across the murky, wine-dark sea without first losing themselves.The Pan Pacific Wind Ensemble is setting out on its inaugural international tour. Funded by Shao Industries, the tour seeks to promote peace through musical performance. Its members land in Hong Kong three weeks prior to the premiere to begin rehearsals. Many of these musicians have previously recorded for the Shao Android Orchestra, who pose direct competition to ensemble's future success.Dr. Newt Geiszler, principal trumpet, and Dr. Hermann Gottlieb, principal bassoon, are assigned to be roommates. They'll be housed together for ten months, but first, they must make it to the premiere.(Tags updated per chapter.)





	1. 02 January - Newt

**Author's Note:**

  * For [mirzers](https://archiveofourown.org/users/mirzers/gifts).



December 09, 2024

Dear Dr. Geiszler,

Welcome to the Pan Pacific Wind Ensemble! We are pleased to inform you of your appointment as principal trumpet.

All pertinent documents are attached, including all flight information, tour cities, pay schedule, and housing information. Pages upon which your signature is required have been highlighted for your convenience. Information regarding rehearsals, anticipated repertoire, and concert attire have been sent in an email to your listed address.

Your folder and all parts are enclosed with this letter. Rehearsals for the preview concert at the Chau mansion begin on 07 January 2025 for a concert on 14 January 2025. Our premiere performance is on 21 January 2025.

A plane ticket to Hong Kong has been purchased in your name. Your flight departs on 01 January 2025. All instruments are insured for damage up to loss by PPWE, but you are required to comply with all air safety regulations regarding luggage. Up to two additional suitcases are sponsored by PPWE, and if you chose to carry additional luggage, you will be responsible for the cost.

Housing will be provided in each of our tour destinations; you are encouraged to acquaint yourself with your roommate as soon as possible. The enclosed materials include tour cities and specific housing details in each city.

Please sign and return your contract at your earliest convenience. Contracts must be received no later than 17 December 2024 12:00pm GMT. Should you fail to return your contract before this date, your position will be considered forfeit and you will be dismissed immediately.

Should you have any questions regarding the contract, we are available between 10am and 5pm HKT Monday through Saturday. We look forward to making your acquaintance soon, and carrying out our mission of international peace through music together.

Yours sincerely,

 

Tendo Choi

Director of Operations, Pan Pacific Wind Ensemble

tchoi@ppwe.org 

 

* * *

 

[Newt Geiszler wants to connect with you on Messenger. Accept?]

[You are now connected with Newt Geiszler on Messenger.]

 

10 December

 **Newt Geiszler:** hey! We’re going to be roommates in Hong Kong!

[Newt Geiszler has set his name to Newt.]

 **Newt:** and for the next like ten months

 **Newt:** I saw your profile

 **Newt:** bassoon?

 **Hermann Gottlieb:** Hello, Newton. It is a pleasure to meet you.

 **Hermann Gottlieb:** I am the principal bassoonist. And yourself?

 **Newt:** trumpet! Principal too!

 **Newt:** that’s awesome man!!

 **Newt:** call me Newt btw

 **Newt:** no one but my uncle calls me Newton

 **Newt:** and only my mom calls me doctor HA

 **Hermann Gottlieb:** Many congratulations to you, Newton. What do you think of the repertoire? I assume you will be playing the trumpet concerto as soloist.

 **Newt:** yeah, man

 **Newt:** Mackey’s stuff is WILD and I like the first cycle of music a lot

 **Newt:** and yeah! I’ve been digging in hard

 **Newt:** that piece is a monster and I love it

 

11 December

 **Hermann Gottlieb:** The Maslanka is an interesting choice for a first concert, and a private one at that.

 

16 December

 **Newt:** I hope you don’t mind that I added you to some groups

 **Newt:** they’re all really good I promise

 **Newt:** some QUALITY memes

 **Newt:** how do you feel about tonality?

 **Newt:** because it was great while it lasted but I’m so glad we’re finally moving past all that

 **Newt:** Bach had a point but we really didn’t need to spend like 800 years on it or anything

 **Newt:** like orchestra, orchestra’s such a good medium but there’s so much MORE to life than playing the same symphonies over and over and over and over

 **Newt:** and over and over and over and over and over and over  
  
**Newt:** and over and over and over and over and over and over and over and over and over and over and over and over

 **Hermann Gottlieb:** You received your DMA from Eastman, correct?

 **Newt:** yeah dude! That’s the performance degree

 **Newt:** it was kinda an afterthought

 **Hermann Gottlieb:** While I agree that we are witnessing the end of one musical era and the beginning of a new one, tonality still has its place in the Western musical canon. Likely without tonality, you and I wouldn’t have our doctoral degrees, nor would our programs exist, nor would the modern wind ensemble as we know it exist.

 **Hermann Gottlieb:** Everything eventually evolves and becomes something new; tonality evolved from modality and so must evolve again into something new. Men believed atonality was the next step in the twentieth century, though now there are exquisite examples of polytonality within our chosen medium of wind band. However, the orchestra is not dying, we are merely examining it from the wrong angle.

 **Newt:** holy shit dude

 **Newt:** did you seriously use a semicolon in messenger?

 **Newt:** anyway

 **Newt:** Juilliard for you, huh?

 **Newt:** your website is really sweet

 **Hermann Gottlieb:** Yes. Composition. Bassoon performance was one of my graduate programs.

 

27 December

 **Newt:** Herms.

 **Newt:** tell me about your favorite piece from high school

 **Newt:** no judgement zone.

 **Newt:** honesty hour.

[Newt has set Hermann Gottlieb’s name to Herms.]

[Herms has set his name to Hermann Gottlieb.]

 **Newt:** come on man!

 **Newt:** you can’t change your name and not play

 **Newt:** here I’ll go first

 **Newt:** Ride

 **Newt:** the Hazo you know?

 **Newt:** it’s way good even now

 **Newt:** it kicked my ass for weeks

 **Hermann Gottlieb:** Yes, Newton, I know the piece. Hazo’s extensive use of percussion in both melodic and rhythmic percussion simultaneously is admirable, as are his modulations. The alternating times, especially the 7/ 8, make the piece refreshing and different. A brilliant work, aptly named, and a fantastic representation of the medium.

 **Newt:** yeah! Totally!!

 **Hermann Gottlieb:** If you’re curious, it was Russian Christmas Music. Reed’s beautiful melodies in the woodwinds and lush brass choir are simple and elegant.

 **Newt:** oh good pick

[Newt has set Hermann Gottlieb’s name to Herms.]

 **Newt:** what about now?

[Herms has set his name to Hermann Gottlieb.]

 

* * *

 

Newt is the first to arrive in the suite in Hong Kong. His flight -- sixteen hours of hell -- left him crabby and exhausted and he’s glad to see a bed. Pan Pacific Wind Ensemble thought of _everything_ : driver at the airport, big welcome buffet, even their own _rehearsal schedule app_ with flight information already loaded in. There are two queen beds in the room, and his three suitcases are stacked neatly next to the bed closest to the door. Newt sets his trumpet bag down, kicks off his boots, and dives onto the bed.

There’s a bathroom and a living room-type room off the main bedroom. Newt rolls around on the bed, seizing pillows and squashing them to his preference. He’s drained from the flight but _wired_ to be in _Hong Kong_ to make _music_ . He wonders how good the bathroom acoustics are. Is it tiled? Is there marble? God, if there’s marble in the _bathroom_ , that’ll make this the fifth bougiest place Newt’s ever stayed.

What will Hermann be like in person? The entire flight, they chatted on messenger about prepared piano and its use in wind ensembles. They’ve spent the last three weeks talking about everything from hemiolas to Renaissance instruments to the problems with their doctorate-granting institutions to practice room conditions and everything that fell between. Newt can’t imagine an actual _human_ speaking in full sentences all the time, but hey, maybe some people are wired differently.

Newt has only seen Hermann’s headshot and glamor shots from his website and if he’s honest, the guy’s brain really gets him going and the body the brain rides in isn’t too bad. _Everyone_ likes Newt, it’s a known fact. Maybe not half his jury panel and maybe not his postdoc committee, but everyone else, which means _Hermann_ will like him. Who cares about anyone else when there’s someone to send niche memes to at 4:33am? And who appreciates the joke of sending said memes at precisely 4:33am? (Will Hermann be okay with his post-performance insomnia?) (Can they still send messages?) (And what about the rest of the insomnia?)

He’s never heard Hermann’s voice. Weird. He has an idea of what Hermann will sound like but he can’t wait to hear for himself. _Does_ he talk in full sentences? Does anyone Newt knows other than his undergrad theory professor talk that way?

Newt hums in thought and rolls himself off the bed. Since he’s here first, he gets first dibs on space, and intends to make full use of it. He hauls the topmost suitcase onto the floor and unzips it. Hole in one - his guess is correct, and this is the bag with his toothbrush! He seizes his bag of toiletries and heads to the bathroom to brush his (probably nasty as hell) teeth and take a shower, shedding clothes as he goes.

A shower is _exactly_ what he needs before a sweet power nap. Maybe he can hit up the buffet again after the nap? Will it still be up? He grabs his phone out of his discarded jeans pocket and calls up Pandora, selecting the disco station with one thumb as he runs the sink with the other. As the Bee Gees start playing, he brushes his teeth. He turns the water for the shower on, and once he rinses his mouth out, takes his glasses off and steps into the stream.

The shower is heavenly - good pressure, nice and hot, and Newt feels _clean_ for the first time in almost a day. He turns off the water to Gloria Gaynor and whistles a harmony as he towels dry and puts his glasses back on. He wipes part of the mirror down and takes a long stare. _Doctor_ Newt _Fucking_ Geiszler, principal trumpet in the Pan Pacific Wind Ensemble, which is not a failing artistic medium thank you very much. Doctor Fucking Newt, total badass _rock star_ principal trumpet. He should get a tattoo of his new initials: NFG. Maybe not a tattoo? Maybe a monogrammed gig bag, with a nice big NFG on all sides. Newt laughs at his wit. Let everyone ask what the F stands for!

No -- knuckle tattoos. NFG. With a skull on his pinkie. _Perfect._

He steps out of the bathroom as Gloria croons “as long as I know how to love I know I’ll stay alive” and --

“Newton?!"

Newt Fucking Rock Star Geiszler stands with naught but a towel around his waist and glasses on his nose to meet, for the first time in the flesh, Doctor Hermann Gottlieb.

Doctor In Person Hermann Gottlieb has a British accent.

Doctor Hermann Corporeal Human Gottlieb has a cane in one hand and his bassoon case in the other.

Doctor _Holy Shit It’s Really Him_ Gottlieb wears what has to be one of the ugliest sweaters Newt’s ever seen (which is saying a lot coming from a profession laden with aged white men who have no fashion sense _at all_ ) and a very potent frown.

Doctor Hermann _Fucking_ Gottlieb places his bassoon case down and huffs a long-suffering sigh. “It will be a pleasure, Dr. Geiszler, to make your acquaintance once you’ve put some pants on. Perhaps a shirt as well."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Myriad thanks to my bb mirzers for beta reading and listening to an endless stream of ranting about wind ensembles, my favorite repertoire, what kind of music degrees exist, and why Newt and Hermann play their respective instruments. Bless you for your extraordinary patience!!
> 
> Wind ensemble is a real medium of musical performance! Currently, there are less than ten paid, professional wind ensembles in the world, and perhaps about ten if you include volunteer organizations. If you were in band at any time in your life, congratulations, you were a member of a wind ensemble! Stay tuned (pun fully intended) for more ~band discourse~ in the future. 
> 
> You can hear everything in this chapter!  
> [Ride by Samuel Hazo](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=au4geHy_S_0), Newt's favorite piece from high school  
> [Russian Christmas Music by Alfred Reed](https://youtu.be/axGZUcK70Xo), Hermann's favorite piece from high school (and maybe one of mine, ohoho)  
> [I Will Survive by Gloria Gaynor](https://youtu.be/ZBR2G-iI3-I), an absolute JAM (highly recommended to dramatically walk out of your bathroom to)
> 
> This is an absolute BLAST to write and I'm having the best time ever. Y'all, I'm gonna be real honest: I haven't been an active part of fandom for over a decade, and I'm so grateful to you for reading! I hope you enjoyed!


	2. 06 January - Hermann

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Rehearsed in this chapter:
> 
> Give Us This Day: Short Symphony for Wind Ensemble - David Maslanka  
> [I. Moderately Slow](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=e0CJq_ZbWl4)  
> [II. Fast](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=TFmETJzQF9I)
> 
> [Ecstatic Waters - Steven Bryant](https://youtu.be/QHzp4phhW40)  
> I. Ceremony of Innocence  
> II. Augurs  
> III. The Generous Wrath of Simple Men  
> IV. The Loving Machinery of Justice  
> V. Spiritus Mundi

17 December

 **Hermann Gottlieb:** What do you think of the wind ensemble model? PPWE is an anomaly, to be certain, but do you believe this is a viable performance medium?

 **Newt:** FUCK yes my dude

 **Newt:** orchestra’s had its heyday and chamber music was always designed for rich people with too much time and money

 **Newt:** there are totally people who perform both still and they’re totally valid to do it!

 **Newt:** it’s too stuffy for me

 **Newt:** but band?

 **Newt:** everyone can be in band.

 **Newt:** and the same “”””””rules””””” that every orchestral composer and conductor and performer are married to don’t necessarily apply to wind ensembles

 **Newt:** like it’s really taken off in the last couple decades with professional musicians playing music WRITTEN for band and excellent transcriptions

 **Hermann Gottlieb:** But young children can still start on orchestral instruments in school.

 **Newt:** yeah but how much new music is there for orchestra? And how much is actually ever performed?

 **Hermann Gottlieb:** Then, Newton, what do you make of Shao’s sponsorship of the ensemble? Including all hotel fees and paying a portion of our stipend?

 **Newt:** idk man

 **Newt:** I played a private gig for Liwen a few years ago?

 **Newt:** she’s cool

 **Newt:** even if she thinks humans can be replaced with robots and tracks on recordings but tbh i don’t give a solitary FUCK

 **Newt:** maybe she’s trying to save face?

 **Hermann Gottlieb:** The question, Newton: is this a viable performance medium?

 **Newt:** obviously

 **Newt:** we’re about to take on an entire season of around-the-world touring and tickets have been selling like crazy for months

 **Newt:** if it wasn’t, would you have auditioned?

[Newt has set Hermann Gottlieb’s name to Herms.]

 

* * *

 

 **Dr. Hermann Gottlieb** is an active composer for wind bands, chamber ensembles, and orchestras. His forthcoming work for wind band, “The Handwriting of God,” was commissioned by the Pan Pacific Wind Ensemble in celebration of their inaugural tour. Dr. Gottlieb’s style is Neo-Romantic, fused with elements of atonality; his recent inspirations include the ethics of robotics and global discourse of climate change. He is currently a member of the Pan Pacific Wind Ensemble and has been a lecturer at Eastman School of Music, University of Southern California, Conservetoire de Paris, The Juilliard School, and the Royal College of Music. He has been honored by the World Association of Symphonic Bands and Ensembles (WASBE) as the September 2024 Composer of the Month.

 

* * *

 

**06 January 2025**

 

Newton has finally gone out to practice. Or get a manicure. Or to go shopping. Or _anywhere_.

Hermann sits in the living room, sighing deeply. He places the roll of tape down on the coffee table next to his reed station and admires his handiwork. Save the living room, the entire suite has been divided in two with the roll of blue masking tape. On one side, Hermann’s belongings are organized neatly: his clothes hang in the closet, his shoes are lined up and polished, his bed made, his sink wiped down, and his toiletries lined up. The other side?

The other side, is, well, Newton’s.

Newton is a human tornado, Hermann has concluded, and the only thing he takes any time to keep in good condition are his instruments. Clothes are strewn all over - Hermann has kicked some across the line - and goodness only knows how Newton finds even a single shoe to put on in the morning before departing from their rooms. There are a heap of clothes in the bathroom under Newton’s sink and Hermann is fairly certain he saw a pair of underwear atop the other man’s toothbrush. Revolting. Disgusting. Music is wherever it last landed. Newton’s two tuxedos lay limply out of a suitcase, almost as if reaching for _someone_ to help them and hang them up. Food wrappers litter the other side of the line, including the unmade bed -- Newton insists that it would be too much trouble for room service to come in every day. He has a “system.”

Unlike messenger, there’s no way to ignore Newton when he’s in your room for at least one waking hour every day. He doesn’t stop. He is _relentless_. If he’s not going on about Ticheli’s music ruining a generation of young musicians, he’s listening to his recordings of himself practicing and recording his commentary on another recording device. And, barring one of those possibilities, he’s in their bathroom, practicing without a mute for hours on end. (“You gotta hear the acoustics, Hermann! You just gotta, they’re so good, I promise.”)

How did he ever think this was going to be a good idea?

Hermann picks up his reed knife and examines his most recent set of reeds. He should have known from that first meeting that things wouldn’t go well. But, stubborn to the bitter end, he decided to stick it through; if he’s still struggling after they move on to Beijing, he’ll talk to Tendo about a room change.

The door bangs open, admitting precisely one principal trumpet player. Newton is carrying a shopping bag in a hand with neon-rainbow nails. “Hermann! Dude, Hong Kong is _awesome_. Manicure? Ten smackaroons. And look at this shirt!”

Hermann glances up again. From the shopping bag, Newton produces a button-down, short-sleeved teal shirt with trumpets on it. “I gotta wear it tomorrow. I looked for one with bassoons for you, but they didn’t know what a bassoon was.”

“You do know that just because we are musicians doesn’t mean we need to own everything with our instruments on it?” Hermann shaves the tiniest bit of cane off the reed currently in his hands.

“Wrong, dude, it means I’m _contractually obligated_ to own all of it. Was that not on your contract?” Newt flings the bag onto his bed and kicks his shoes into separate corners; one lands on Hermann’s side. “It was part of my oath I took when they gave me my DMA. Hey, what’s with the tape? Crime scene? Forensic investigation?”

“No, Newton.” Hermann places the reed back onto its peg on the board. “It’s because of the _squalor_ that you choose to live in. I will stay on my side, and you will stay on yours.” He marches over to where Newton’s shoe landed and chucks the offending object back across the line.

“Man, what the hell?!” Newton steps over the line to get in Hermann’s face and Hermann bats at Newton’s feet and ankles with his cane. Newton recoils over to his side in shock. “The _fuck_ , dude! I’m barefoot!” 

“I will not tolerate finding another one of your _socks_ on my shampoo bottle --”

“It was wet! It was raining outside and I needed a place for it to dry and all my bottles were in use already!” 

“I cannot _live_ finding trumpet music mingled amidst my own. And _when_ you decide to hang your tuxedos up, do be certain that they remain on _your_ side of the closet.”

“Okay, so, story time --”

“Newton. This cannot continue.”

“Fine. Fine! It won’t. I’ll stay on my side. I’ll even _practice_ on my side of the bathroom. Happy?”

“Extremely. I can barely contain my enthusiasm.” 

Newton throws his hands up in frustration and shouts wordlessly, grabbing a trumpet and the nearest music from one of the myriad piles and storms into the bathroom, locking the door once he’s there. How exquisitely lucky for Hermann that Newton grabbed the piccolo trumpet, and that the _principal trumpet player_ is now having a high note contest with himself in the allegedly acoustically awesome bathroom. Hermann can hear everything.

Satisfied, Hermann sits back down and picks up a new reed.

“Satisfied” is perhaps the wrong word. He’s pried the smallest victory from...not defeat, but out of the pigsty of their quarters. But: a victory is a victory.

 

* * *

 

“Yo, Herms, it’s dinner time.” Newton pokes his head into the living room. Hermann looks over his glasses, away from his notebook, at the other man. He’s been busy making last-minute corrections and changes to his piece to prepare for rehearsal, which won’t be for a few days yet, but better safe than sorry. He practiced earlier in the afternoon when Newton had finally moved on to the later movements of his concerto, and is prepared for tomorrow’s first rehearsal.

“Thank you, Newton.”

“Would you, uh, like to come down with me? I know you’re still mad at me but you should, like, eat.”

Hermann closes the notebook and sets his pen down. “I suppose you have a point. Let us depart.”

As the door clicks shut behind them, Newt asks, “I saw the pre-release program today with your biographical note. ‘Ethics of robotics?’ Does that have anything to do with the Shao android orchestra?" 

“It does,” Hermann says as they walk to the elevator. Newt punches the button and Hermann continues, “Especially the orchestra that has been Ms. Shao’s pet project for the last decade. The androids that are playing orchestral works are exquisite in their craftsmanship, but they can only do as much as their programming dictates. She may commission all the works she likes, but in the end, there are no substitutes for human performance. Orchestra is a living performance medium, but her androids are squeezing the soul out of it.”

The elevator arrives and they step in. “No matter how technically proficient, no matter how exactly note values are held, there is nothing that can replicate the _feeling_ that humans add to performance. There is so much _more_ to making music than just hitting the correct notes at the correct time; truly _making music_ transcends the notes and rhythms and finds the life between them. Do you remember the Virtual Choir, and how it was turned into downloadable voices for composers to use on their notation software?”

Newton nods.

“All emotion was lost in that translation. While the original Virtual Choirs -- the choirs with actual humans singing the music they were given -- were a success, the software was a pale imitation of their depth of sound. Expensive to produce, and more expensive to sit by and watch as it failed.” Hermann shakes his head. “I don’t see Ms. Shao’s experiment succeeding any more than the Virtual Choir software did.”

“I mean, Hatsune Miku succeeded, right?” Newt laughs. “And that was like, what, a decade before Virtual Choir was released?”

“A crude comparison, to be sure, but Vocaloid _was_ trying to capture the human voice in recordings to enable playback.” The elevator arrives to the ground floor and they step out together. “Still, you wouldn’t expect the Vocaloid software to sing an aria and have it sound good!”

“But why be angry about it? I recorded for Liwen for this _exact_ project and I’m hoping we’ll get to drop by and hear _something_ while we’re in town!” Newton asks.

“I wouldn’t say ‘angry,’ Newton,” Hermann corrects. “The ethical implications of replacing human musicians are worth contemplating before we dive deep. Who is _making_ the music? And if it really is just ones and zeroes, how close do we come to the breath of divinity as we master the code to make music? What if we finally discover what lies between the notes and rhythms?”

Newt pushes the door to the dining hall open. Most of the ensemble members have already arrived and are lined up at the buffet, or seated with their food. “The sound might be mine, dude, but whatever life it takes on beyond me playing into the mics is up to whoever punches the code in. And Hermann, dude, ‘breath of divinity?’” Newton uses finger quotes to make his point. The people around them in line give them some space. “That’s _fucking crazy_.”

“You are aware, Newton, that my piece uses one of Ms. Shao’s androids? I’ve been working on the code with her lead developer for over a year,” Hermann spoons potatoes onto his plate. “And that it’s your recordings that we’re using? You will never be a part of the performance, but your sound will be present.”

“Dude, that’s _dope as hell_. I’m Hatsune Miku, trumpet edition! Phone, make a note: meme of Miku playing trumpet and wearing my new shirt.” Newton piles his plate high with noodles and moves on to the vegetables. “Besides, what’s the issue? Why be so upset? You make bank for writing the piece, PPWE tours internationally, you get more commissions, my sound lives on. What’s not to love? And of _course_ the divine is there -- it’s _my_ sound, dude.”

“How are you compensated when an android uses your sound to make a piece you’ve never laid eyes on? Did you make that music, or did the robot, or did its programmer? And is it still ‘composing’ if composers are merely entering code?” Hermann grabs at a chicken breast with the tongs a little too aggressively.

“I mean, with your piece, it doesn’t mean anything -- we’re paid weekly, not by performance. Even if there’s just your composition on the program, even if I only play a single note, I’m still paid like the rock star I am.” Newton says.

“Newton, think about this. Get it through your pea-sized brain: you are replaceable if they are successful in making real music with the androids.” Hermann grabs a roll and nearly misses his plate, he’s so caught up in this debate.

“So what, Hermann? It would be years, if not decades, before a full ensemble would exist on its own. Why not embrace the sci-fi and live in the now? Why not just enjoy your own _god damn_ music?” Newton is almost shouting at this point. “Are _you_ even a _composer_ if you’re just writing for robots?”

Hermann is seething with fury as they sit down with Tendo. The man nods to both of them in recognition, mouth filled with food and a cup of coffee in one hand. Newton all but slams his plate down, splattering small bits of food around his place. _Disgusting._ Hermann sets his plate down and takes a seat across the circular table from Newton, next to Tendo.

“Evening, Brothers. How are we this beautiful evening?” Tendo asks. Newton responds by shoveling food into his face and scowling at Hermann.

“Fine, thank you, Tendo. Yourself?” Hermann places his napkin over his lap. Newton focuses on his food, brows furrowed and expression dark. 

“Ah, not bad, not bad. Been ready to start rehearsing for days and we’re finally getting into it tomorrow!” Tendo says, obviously happy. “We’ve finished the program notes and are getting ready to go into printing. You feeling good about everything you put in, Doc?" 

“Quite. Newton and I were just discussing the piece, as a matter of fact,” Hermann takes a bite of the potatoes, which are perfectly cooked and seasoned. “Newton was regaling me with his theory that we are decades away from an all-robot ensemble.”

“Is that so? Well, you gentlemen will be glad to know that Shao has invited us in to hear the android orchestra after the preview concert.” Tendo gives a small smile and nod to Newton; Hermann grins smugly. “Might not be decades, Brother, if this is as good as they’ve made it sound to the press!”

“I’m glad to have one of the androids incorporated into my work, especially on such an important tour.” Hermann says. “And one that uses the very sound of our principal trumpet player! How fortuitous --”

“You know what?” Newton points his fork, still loaded with food, at Hermann and Tendo. “You can kiss my _entire_ ass, _Doctor Gottlieb_ . And you know? I’m _proud_ to be a part of this in whatever ass-backwards way I am. It’s _phenomenal_ . I’ll outlive everything, be in every recording of anything _ever_ . And you? You’ll just be plugging in my code, dude.” Newt waves the fork around and flings some of the food at Hermann. “Composer, my _ass._ You’re going to be hearing me forever. You’ll just be yesterday’s news, forgotten by time.”

“Newt, let’s take a deep breath --” Tendo gets up and holds his hands up in a surrender gesture. Hermann has passed beyond the veil of anger and is serenely calm.

“No, I’m not gonna calm down. I’m outta here.” Newt storms away, leaving most of his dinner untouched.

Hermann cuts into his chicken breast. 

Tendo sits back down and takes a long swallow of coffee. “You okay with that, Brother?”

“‘Okay with?’ No, certainly not.” Hermann responds slowly. “Understanding of? To an extent. Newton wanted to know my inspirations, and so I told him. I was paid to write one of the androids into this piece, and am having a difficult time processing the implications of that inclusion. Newton thinks it is the peak of innovation and is excited that his recorded sound has been diced up into unrecognizable bits and will be played back by a, a machine.”

He sighs. “He thinks it is ‘cool’ and ‘rad,’ which you heard the end of. While yes, it is a new direction for an ensemble to take, we cannot know the challenges without greater perspective on the matter. Electronics are one type of instrument. But androids? Robots? There is so much more to understand before, well, _this_.”

“Is it really that bad with him?” Tendo asks.

“This time, he didn’t bring up sex robots and their complex ethical problems, so we should count our many lucky stars that Newton chose not to explore _that_ particular avenue.” Hermann responds. “It may not be a terrible thing, but we have no way to know for certain before it’s too late. Most often, when presented with a new type of technology, we embrace it without first assessing the risks. We forge foolishly ahead, and only when the damage is done do we gaze back upon the wreckage. We may never be able to reproduce what makes us fundamentally human, but how close has Ms. Shao come with this orchestra? And if the orchestra today, what next? What problems might Shao be engineering that we have not yet considered?”

“I hear you, man,” Tendo sips at his drink. “Do you think her orchestra will come close? Will the android you use in your piece come close to what you want?”

“It absolutely will not. I fear the piece will be compromised by that machine, but what can I do at this point?” Hermann says, disdain written on his face. “I have no doubt that this is an expensive waste of time and resources. People could be listening to _real_ music not this, this _farce_.”

“I ask myself sometimes if people even listen, and if we should even bother to make music any more. But then I remember that it’s not just about _us_ , it’s about so much more than that. And knowing that makes it worth it.” Tendo has a wistful look in his eye as he speaks.

“There is never any telling whose crisis of self you may help to resolve, no way to measure how deeply impactful your performance is. There is only the knowledge that you gave it everything you could, and that has to be enough.” Hermann sets his utensils down. He smiles. “Thank you, Tendo.”

“Any time, Brother, any time. Newt knows that her orchestra will be playing one of the same pieces we are in the preview, right?” Tendo asks.

Hermann nearly chokes. “I beg your pardon?!”

“Yeah, you know, the Bryant? Ecstatic Waters? Turns out there’s an orchestra version, and when they heard we’d be doing it, they changed the entire program to get it on there. Gonna be pretty cool to hear the ‘droids do it, huh?” Tendo says. “You really didn’t know?”

“The last I saw of the program for the evening, it had two Beethoven symphonies and a short original composition.” Hermann is shocked. “How do _you_ feel about this?”

“Not for me to say, my man,” Tendo takes another sip of his coffee. “I play the piano, direct operations, and make sure we all get from rehearsal letter A to rehearsal letter ZZ. Other than that? The maestro will make his programs and our various hosts along the way will make theirs. If they want to copy us, they can go right ahead. Nothing’ll beat the original, you mark my words.”

 

* * *

 

06 January 2025

 

[Newt has set Hermann Gottlieb’s name to BrEaTh oF DiViNiTy.]

BrEaTh oF DiViNiTy: Really, Newton?

[BrEaTh oF DiViNiTy has set his name to Hermann Gottlieb.]

 

* * *

 

Newton is still out of their rooms when Hermann returns several hours later. A blessing.

Hermann begins to prepare for bed. Rehearsal begins at 09:00, and it’s 21:27 now. He’ll still have enough time to get restful sleep, be in a practice room two hours before rehearsal begins, and be half an hour early to allow his reeds to acclimate. With the lack of a principal trumpet player in the room, he’s certain he can be asleep by 22:00.

If he’s honest with himself, he’s disappointed. For as incessant as Newton was in Messenger, their interactions were always amicable; from their first hour in one another’s company, the bickering has been endless. When the arguing finally ebbs, Newton is always standing by, ready to fan the flames. Hermann would have thought their relationship would have been...different. Perhaps if not friends, acquaintances. _Something_ involving less fighting and more, well, more of whatever they had before they met.

 _But_ , he thinks, _would I do anything to change it?_

He thinks about it as he packs his reeds up for rehearsal, as he shuffles his music into order, as he changes into pajamas. _Would I?_ He’d make Newton neater, to be certain. He grunts in annoyance as he walks through his side to the bathroom. Newton must have been back at some point to arrange some of his belongings to lay _just_ on the line, but not over. Outrageous. Childish.

Does Newton hate him?

If he did, would he make sure to alert Hermann every evening in some way or another that it’s time for dinner?

If he did, would he still be roommates with Hermann?

If he did, would he continue to passionately debate with Hermann?

He imagines -- not for the first time -- Newton standing in a towel, tattoos bared. _Stop that. Stop that this instant._ Newton’s tattoos of swirling music, geometric patterns, and monsters are seared into his memory as though by a brand.

He absolutely refuses to think about the certain pair of piercings Newton has. Piercings Hermann has only -- thankfully, _mercifully_ \-- seen once.

Hermann brushes his teeth, lays his clothes out for the morning, and resolves to not think of Newton for the rest of the evening.

He almost succeeds at everything.

 

* * *

 

Rehearsal schedule for 07 January 2025

 

09:00 - Maslanka

11:30 - Lunch

13:00 - Bryant

15:00 - Mackey

17:30 - Dinner

 

* * *

 

Hermann is among the first to the concert hall for rehearsal. He had left -- according to schedule -- two hours before the call time to be warmed up and on stage half an hour prior to the beginning of the rehearsal. Newton was still snoring when he left; Hermann has no idea when the other man returned to their quarters, but it must have been very late at night. Hermann sets his bassoon case down to pull the door open.

The Becket brothers and Pentecost’s stepdaughter Mako Mori are the only ones in the hall when he steps through the doors. They look up, almost in perfect unison, and Mako gives him a small wave. There’s hours yet until they will be rehearsing Ecstatic Waters, but they’re working through the melodic percussion introduction.

“Good morning, Dr. Gottlieb!” Mako calls as Hermann ascends to the stage, bassoon in hand. “How are you this morning?”

“Quite well, Ms. Mori. Mr. Becket and Mr. Becket?” Hermann asks in kind. The blond-haired brothers both smile.

“Never thought this kid’n I would be playing in the same ensemble, but here we are,” Yancy says. Hermann’s memory is right: Yancy is the elder of the two. “Both on percussion! Rals could hardly hold his mallets way back when.”

Raleigh, the younger, smiles proudly. “All the way from front ensemble to front of the PPWE.” He fondly punches his brother on the shoulder, which Yancy promptly returns. “You ready for your big moment?”

“Just adding the final touches before we begin rehearsals,” Hermann says. “Is this your first time working with Pentecost as a conductor?”

“Nah, been with him a few times before,” Yancy says. “Good guy, clear gestures, nothing fancy in concerts. Can’t say the same for every conductor.”

“Ms. Mori?” Hermann asks. More people are trickling into the hall and onto stage. Tendo -- he assumes -- set name tags on every stand to reduce confusion. He makes his way to his chair, positioned stage right from the conductor.

“This is my first time being in my father’s ensemble.” She responds, glowing. “Will you be conducting your premiere, or playing?”

“Conducting, I should think.” Hermann sits and begins to reassemble his bassoon. “While I would enjoy playing, there is something more, more _authentic_ about conducting a work the first time it is heard. It won’t be the first time I’m hearing it, but it will be my first time sharing it with the public at large. I trust the maestro, but I will deliver it to the world as it was meant to be heard.” 

Mako laughs. “I understand, Dr. Gottlieb. You know your music’s heart better than anyone else and you _should_ be proud of that.”

Newton comes into the hall. He’s wearing the shirt he bought yesterday (tacky) and his usual tight pants. Hermann does his best to ignore him, a sentiment which Newton is obviously returning as powerfully as he can.

A relief.

 

Is it, though?

 

* * *

 

There is nothing quite like a rehearsal.

To make music, you must surrender yourself to the sound of the ensemble. Retaining ego is worthless and will ruin the texture. Refusing to blend with other sounds will destroy the composer’s intentions. Holding onto the past instead of being in the _now_ of the piece is unacceptable.

Hermann knows all of this, and yet...

And yet every time, every breath is music made anew, music forged for the first time.

You take all your past experiences in with you -- every breath you’ve ever taken, the first time you played Hot Cross Buns, the last time you played on your college stage -- and offer them up so that you might be worthy of _this_. Your experiences are taken and shaped and returned to you, shining and new, in the moments between the notes.

Each swell, each upward scale run, every fermata is a new creation out of twelve notes; every moment of pause, each downward arpeggiation, each diminuendo is a fresh experience. Hermann is humbled to make music with other humans every time he has the chance to. Though every person in this ensemble has walked in with their own experiences, perhaps even their own memories of these pieces, they drown in the wash of music. To make music is to drift through the minds of your neighbors under the guidance of a conductor. To make music is to give life to the handwriting of god.

The first movement of Give Us This Day is long, so long. Hermann has time to think as he holds endless whole notes across miles of bar lines and knows that there is no substitution for _humans_ making music together. He knows the inexorable truth of his own composition.

A human needs to play his piece, not the pale imitation of Newton that has already been programmed for set tempi.

A human will understand his intentions, his shapings, his brilliant gestures. They will bring themselves into the piece insofar as to make it _complete_ , to pour life into it that no _machine_ ever could. They will know what it means to surrender to the music, to yield to the ensemble, to appreciate the moments of silence. A machine brings no experience, no humanity, no _self_ to give over.

Pentecost stops the ensemble and gives the clarinet section a direction on phrasing. Androids cannot accept that kind of instruction; instead, their programmers would be editing their code to comply with the conductor’s wishes. Do android orchestras need a conductor?  

Hermann’s phone buzzes in his pocket. A quick glance over to the trumpet section confirms his suspicion: it is none other than Newton, messaging when he shouldn’t be. How knavish.

And yet.

It is none other than Newton who should be playing his piece.

He might not like the man, he might be revolted by his mannerisms, he might have the _smallest_ feelings of goodwill towards his roommate-for-the-next-ten-months, but he knows that _Newton’s_ playing is what is needed.

He feels it in his bones.

Pentecost raises his baton, gives two beats and a breath, and they’re off again into the selfless whole of the music.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks to all of you who left kudos and comments on the last chapter! I'll hopefully be updating with 3,000+ word chapters approximately once a week. 
> 
> And, if you aren't already, listen to the music! If you trust my writing, trust my concert programming, too. ;)


	3. 10 January - Newt

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Sophistication is only ever a mask. 
> 
> \- Program note from Antique Violences, mvmt. 2, A. E. Jacques

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Rehearsed in this chapter, with links to relevant movements:
> 
> Ecstatic Waters - Steven Bryant
> 
> Wine-Dark Sea (Symphony for Band):  
> I. Hubris  
> [II. Immortal thread, so weak](https://youtu.be/sWntxiJcvyU)  
> III. The attention of souls
> 
> Antique Violences: Concerto for Trumpet - John Mackey  
> [I. The blooded lines](https://youtu.be/OlGNaSfefmM)  
> [II. Secrets' teeth](https://youtu.be/rpfJvJeu9PQ)  
> III. Sorrow is a blade  
> IV. The curtain calls
> 
> Content warning in this chapter for depictions of anxiety and anxiety disorders. Tags have been updated accordingly.
> 
> Recommended listening is Wine-Dark Sea (mvmt 2) and Antique Violences (mvmt 2). Trust me, you'll know where to start.

**Dr. Newt Geiszler** finds playing the trumpet incomparable to the exhilaration of playing an Alpenhorn. He is a proud alumnus of Greenside Elementary School (Class of 2001) and would love to talk about your theories of alternate realities. When he isn’t a rock star trumpet player, he’s a guest lecturer at several major music schools internationally, and will leave it up to you to guess which ones (your guesses will always be correct, he’s been to all of them). Newt is a card-carrying member of the Bigfoot Field Researchers Organization. You can hear Newt play with the Pan Pacific Wind Ensemble on tour in 2025 or experience his sound in the Shao Android Orchestra.

* * *

 

07 January 2025

 

 **Newt:** yo herms

 **Newt:** you holding up okay?

 **Newt:** how many whole notes y’all got?

 

 **Newt:** hermannnnnnnnnnnnnnnnnnn

 **Newt:** you’re just going to ignore me?

 **Newt:** fine

 **Newt:** the only person more long winded than you is pentecost

 **Newt:** and that takes EFFORT

 **Newt:** what does he do

 **Newt:** pre write this shit?

 

 **Newt:** oh my god the only person who’s jerked it harder than you about the BREATH of GOD in MUSIC is fucking pentecost

**Hermann Gottlieb:** I’ll thank you not to call me a wanker, Newton.

 

[Newt has set Hermann Gottlieb’s name to Wanker.]

[Wanker has set his name to Hermann Gottlieb.]

 

* * *

08 January 2025

**Hermann Gottlieb:** What did you think of the Bryant?

 

 **Newt:** I love the clarinet sound effects in the fourth movement

 **Newt:** stroke of genius if you ask me

 **Newt:** is the maslanka treating you okay?

 **Newt:** and how does my piece sound?

 **Hermann Gottlieb:** It would sound better if you stopped messaging me during rehearsal.

[Hermann Gottlieb has changed Newt’s name to Trumpet Buffoon.]

 **Trumpet Buffoon:** HOLY FUCK

 **Trumpet Buffoon:** HERMANN

 

 **Trumpet Buffoon:** DUDE

 **Trumpet Buffoon:** TOOK YOU LONG ENOUGH

[Trumpet Buffoon has set Hermann Gottlieb’s name to Bassoon Up My Ass.]

 **Bassoon Up My Ass:** Newton.

[Bassoon Up My Ass has set his name to Hermann Gottlieb.]

 **Hermann Gottlieb:** To answer your question, the Mackey sounds superb. We are looking forward to having you in rehearsal. You come on the tenth, correct?

 **Trumpet Buffoon:** yeah!

 **Trumpet Buffoon:** I can’t wait

 **Trumpet Buffoon:** like I have so many ideas of what it’s gonna sound like with THIS group

 **Trumpet Buffoon:** and I can’t wait to hear it for myself in person

 **Trumpet Buffoon:** and like pentecost probably is doing exactly what i’m gonna want

 **Trumpet Buffoon:** but the maslanka?

* * *

 

**10 January 2025**

Today’s the first day Newt will be playing his concerto with the ensemble and he is stoked as _fuck_.

He’s personally banished himself from attending rehearsals of the piece up to this point, purposefully keeping Pentecost’s directions to the ensemble a mystery. He has no idea how the piece sounds or how he’s going to sound with the ensemble, but he’s so _fucking_ excited. There’s only so many solo bathroom practice sessions you can have before you want to rip your hair out and _play_ with people.

Or robots!

Robots are good too!

Newt has picked his manicure off, which means he’ll have to get a new one some time this week. What do you wear to play at a billionaire’s mansion? One who maybe has mob connections? Other than your tux, of course -- Newt’s gotta have _panache_ as soloist.

Will Hermann want to come with him? He could use the relaxation, dude’s _always_ tightly wound.

Speaking of his tuxes and Hermann, he’s taken mercy on his tuxes and hung them up, and has already selected a brilliant blue tie to wear for his solo. It has a scale-like texture and an almost iridescent finish and made Hermann scoff when he saw it, which was the final stamp of approval in Newt’s book. His matching cufflinks rest on the floor of the closet, right on the tape line Hermann set down.

Newt’s just sent his laundry to be done, so he’s wearing a wrinkled white button-down and a skinny black tie today. As he laces his Docs up he hums the opening bars of the upcoming Mackey piece, Wine-Dark Sea. He’s played it before but this time feels _different_. The gravity of its message has increased, and it’s somehow become more personal. Newt isn’t going to be making any epic journeys any time soon, and certainly doesn’t plan to ride out to war, but after practicing, he’s left wanting to wring _more_ from the music. The opening bars depict Odysseus leaving the battlefield in grim triumph, and the end brings the first theme back for his return home as a different man. Newt can relate: you don’t go through college marching band and leave the same person you went in as. He’s not Homer, but damn if he hasn’t seen some shit in his day.

Regardless: he’s been practicing it a lot; he’s pretty sure rehearsals start for it in like, two days. The zesty dissonance at the beginning has him hooked and he wishes (not for the first time) that he could hum polyphonics. It would be _amazing_ to be able to hum the entire brass overture on his own. Maybe he can record everything and choose what part to hum on any given day?

Newt can’t _wait_ to hear Pentecost’s interpretation of Wine-Dark Sea. If he’s feeling the intensity of the overtures and anger in only his practice -- and in whatever he catches as he coasts by the practice rooms -- he’s going to _burst_ when he gets to play with the ensemble.

And, holy fuck, _his piece is today_!

What could be better?!

Hermann likes to leave for rehearsal almost a full two hours early, like all the good seats are going to be taken or something. It’s 8:43am and Newt has _eons_ of time to walk the four blocks to the hall and be in his seat by the time Pentecost starts in on his daily sermon. He checks that he has all his music, that all five of his horns are in his bag, and sets off for another day of rehearsals.

* * *

 

 Rehearsal schedule for 10 January 2025

 

09:00 - Bryant, mvmt 5

10:00 - Mackey, symphony, mvmt 1

11:30 - Lunch

13:00 - Mackey, concerto

17:00 - Dinner

* * *

 

Newt checked his phone seconds before waltzing into the hall, and is glad he did -- today’s the first rehearsal for the _big_ piece on their premiere concert. As though his humming summoned it out of the depths and into rehearsal. Not that he isn’t ready, not that it’s not a piece that he loves, but it’s a lot of Mackey for one day. And wow, it’s the first rehearsal and they’re going to be running all three movements!

Not a bad thing!

Just unexpected.

Newt has never been in a pro ensemble with so much lead time before a performance and it has been _so nice_. Tendo has all their music for two months in their folders already and updates the app daily. PR events are marked in their own color, and ensemble members have received communication if they will be at any of said events with no less than a week to make plans. It’s so easy to focus on music when everything else is taken care of for you!

“Yo, Hermann! Still got your seat? No one stole it?” The bassoons are seated on the opposite side of stage from where Newt’s own seat in the trumpet section is, but the pit stop is worth it. Hermann rolls his eyes and sighs.

“You might one day discover that _your_ chair has been stolen by someone who bothered to arrive on time. Perhaps then you will stop this childish harassment.” Hermann expertly shaves the tiniest bit of cane off his reed. Newt just laughs. “Don’t you have somewhere else to be? Another fortunate individual to make aware of rehearsal etiquette? Your _concerto_ to warm up?”

“Hermann, Hermann! Concerto’s not until this afternoon, dude, I got time to _burn_ .” Newt is already strolling away. “Besides, Chuck here is _harmless_.”

“Watch it, Geiszler.” Chuck Hansen has been bitter since day negative-thirty about losing principal trumpet to Newt, and has done nothing to hide his annoyance. He currently sits in the fourth chair from Newt’s seat. “I’d steal that placement faster than I could drop-kick your ass back to whatever rock you crawled out from under.”

“Aww, buddy, no need to get sentimental this early! And in public!” Newt takes out the trumpets he’ll need for the morning rehearsal and blows a kiss. Chuck _is_ harmless -- just some garden variety puffed-up, trumpet-playing egotistical asshat. Newt is entirely disinterested in bantering with him. He opens his folder and shuffles his music into the correct order for rehearsal.

“Ensemble, good morning.” Pentecost takes the podium. “We have the final movement of the Bryant and our first rehearsal of the Mackey symphony this morning. Both tell stories of strange shores and how we come to arrive upon them. We ford these rivers, cross these oceans, together, as one. ‘Ensemble’ comes from the French word for together, and everything we do here, we do together. We have precious few days before we give our premiere...”

Newt loses focus as Pentecost continues. He seriously must have a _book_ of these.

He should write a book of things that piss Hermann off, but he’d run out of room before they even leave for the next tour stop. Would Hermann even cross the line to get it?

His attention returns as a tuning note is offered from the clarinet.

“From the beginning of the fifth movement. Electronics?” Pentecost raises his baton.

And Newt ceases to be himself.

* * *

Newt barely remembers the time in his life that he didn’t play trumpet. He was eight when he was allowed to select an instrument, and four short months later was blatting his way through Jingle Bells with the rest of his class in the gymnasium-cafeteria-theater of the elementary school. He remembers leaving class to go to the group music lessons one day a week and charging off the bus in the afternoon to get inside his house and practice.

He remembers his parents buying him his first trumpet and set of mutes. He remembers getting a job to pay for private lessons. He remembers taking off at an _exponential_ rate, playing jazz, quitting his shitty job to take paying gigs, auditioning for his undergrad programs, his senior recital, his first graduate audition. He remembers pushing and pushing and pushing and _pushing_ through his anxiety, through countless panic attacks, through endless self-doubt. He remembers the rush of emotions and the tidal waves of joy that he’s drowned in, too.

Music, to him, is all about the _feeling_. Yeah, obviously rhythms are important and tempo matters, but if you don’t _feel_ anything, is it even worth playing?

He remembers his third master’s program and Wine-Dark Sea being on the program for the final spring concert. He remembers the dark, foreboding energy of the first movement, the austerity of the second, and the restlessness of the third. His memories serve him well, but things are _different_ now.

Wine-Dark Sea tells the tale of Odysseus, and the second movement is Kalypso’s time with the man. She nurses him back to health, but still he leaves her. As they begin the movement, Newt feels the _heartbreak_ for the first time, the longing and _loneliness_. Of course he’s been heartbroken and lonely and has longed for someone, but never has he felt the deep impact as the tone colors change from harp to woodwinds. He lifts his glance to look in front of him and there, coloring the clarinet sound, is Hermann, playing so sweetly it breaks Newt’s heart.

Except Hermann is a sanctimonious prick who probably irons his socks when Newt’s out of the room.

Except these are just fucking half and quarter notes with some spicy dissonances.

And Hermann is just the principal bassoon.

This is his fucking _job_.

He’s _supposed_ to make those scribbles on a page sound like _something_.

They just happen to sound really, really lonely as they resonate in Newt’s chest.

It hits Newt all at once - the how and the _why_ and _the who_ of how this piece suddenly came to mean so much more.

Pentecost stops the woodwind and low brass choir to give a direction -- he talks about the weightless gravity of the movement and how it must be simultaneously heartbroken and hopeful and walk the diametric opposites with perfect balance. The brass, Pentecost says, can be a little lighter, and use more sweeping gestures.

Newt nods along in agreement. Pentecost begins the movement again.

Has Hermann ever felt like he’s out of place in the big leagues? Like one day this will all come crashing down and they’ll find out that he’s a fraud, like they know Newt is and are just humoring him because he recorded some licks for Liwen?

Nah, probably not.

Hermann _belongs_ here. Where Newt’s practice is erratic at best -- okay, erratic with _some_ purpose, he didn’t get all those degrees without a metric fuckton of practicing -- Hermann’s is strictly regimented. Hermann is all but married to his metronome when he practices and Newt could care less about having one of his own (most of the time). Hermann is attentive in rehearsal, is always making notes about how to improve his piece, knows everyone’s name…

Hermann should be here.

But maybe Newt has a place, too.

The whole ensemble is finally in at rehearsal letter C and Newt swears he can _feel_ Hermann as he takes a breath to prepare for his entrance. Their lines are contrapuntal and as the music slows to accept the weight of so much more sound, Newt pays close attention to how his line moves against the one Hermann is playing. Mackey let it all go in this movement and it is a shining testament to his _genius_ that this level of intensity is only the beginning, and is so _different_ from the first movement of bombast and war.

Newt can just about see the shimmering fabric the ensemble has woven as he releases once again into silence. The woodwind choir begins anew, reshuffled and poignant as ever.

Newt hears, _feels_ Kalypso’s lament over Odysseus’ imminent departure from her island. He knows that Hermann will never feel that way toward him, and will never lament Newt’s departure after the ten months they’re stuck together. Newt?

Newt knows that ten months can never be enough, _will_ never be enough.

Newt would metaphorically nurse him back to health for seven years, even if it meant knowing he would have to release Hermann at the end of that time to continue his life of wearing ugly sweaters.

But he would always choose to have him, rather than to never know him at all.

* * *

Lunch passes in a blur of keyed-up nerves and an argument with Hermann over something utterly irrelevant. Newt instigated by asking something he knew would get Hermann going, and Hermann responded in kind; all of that is lost beneath the whine of anxiety and the rushing of blood in Newt’s ears.

He had left with over half the break still to go, food on the table and barely touched. He’s standing at the front of the stage now, four trumpets and a flugelhorn arrayed on their stands around him. He’s pacing and conducting and singing his part, occasionally muttering to his phone. He _knows_ that he _knows_ the piece like it’s a part of him now, but still. There’s that awful part of anxiety where you’re in freefall between excitement and anxiety, excitement and anxiety, anxiety and excitement and you never know which one you’ll land on. Newt can feel the buzz of excitement from this morning, but the anxiety is a constant drone in his ears and weight on his chest.

He stops, facing his music and facing out into the hall as he will in performance. What’s his routine again?

What’s he playing?

Antique Violences by John Mackey. It’s a four-movement trumpet concerto.

What does he need to play it?

C, B-flat, E-flat, and B-flat piccolo trumpets and a flugelhorn.

And what’s it about?

Violences. Wearing a mask. Hiding in plain sight. Centuries of war and bugle calls and the Crusades and how humans only fight and make war and never have peace and never give themselves peace and _wow_ this really isn’t working so well any more.

Newt shakes his hands and buzzes his lips. Half the battle is showing up, right? Ha, battle, fits with the theme, good one. Performance isn’t a battle, though, performance is a dance with the entire ensemble and conductor and you as the soloist and you spin spin spin until it’s --

“Newton?”

“Oh! Hermann!” Newt snaps to attention. (Ha! Military joke, good one.) “Trust me, still not here to steal your seat.”

“No, no, you seem much too preoccupied to bother yourself for something as trivial as my _chair_.” Hermann walks up to join Newt on stage. “You’re here early.”

“Me? Oh, yeah, I guess I am,” Newt says, trying to hold a single thread of thought as thousands race through his head. “Didn’t know I was here so early. If I did, I would have gotten some _real_ work done, like gluing the head in place on Chuck’s stand so he stops moving it for ten fucking seconds while we’re playing.”

“No need for language, Newton.”

“Why are _you_ here so early? There’s like, what, until rehearsal? Twenty minutes?”

“There are ten minutes until rehearsal resumes.”

“Right, like I was saying. You could be out there for another six of them, dude, not stuck in here with me.”

Hermann shrugs as he finishes putting his instrument together. “I figured you could use the company.”

The billion thoughts all give out at once. Hermann? Spending time with him? _Willingly?!_ Newt pinches himself, literally pinches his forearm in the deafening silence between anxiety and excitement where _Hermann_ exists.

“Gentlemen. Good afternoon,” Pentecost enters as Newt’s brain is starting to come back online after Hermann hit it with ten thousand joules of pure charm. “I trust your lunch hour was pleasant. Newt, are you ready to dive in?”

“Yeah, yeah! You bet I am!” Newt gives a big thumbs-up and a winning smile. “I have a few ideas about tempo I’d like to review with you before we get going. Cool?”

Pentecost gives a single nod. Hermann offers nothing -- good. Good? Hermann should have some witty comeback for that, Newt telling the _conductor_ what to do, and yet he doesn’t.

Hermann came back from lunch early to be with Newt. He had offered _that_.

Newt’s ready for this, right? _Right?!_

Fuck _yeah_ he’s fucking ready!

* * *

 Okay, Pentecost fucking _sucks_.

Mako? Mako does not. She _nailed_ that snare solo in movement one, but her dad? Her dad can eat an entire brass section worth of spit after rehearsal. Newt can oversee it _personally_.

Where did Pentecost get this interpretation from? The floating trash island on the Pacific? A tire fire? The knitting of a sweater even Hermann considers too ugly to wear?

They’re on movement two when Newt loses it.

He taps Pentecost on the arm; he stands to the conductor’s left. The first clarinetist gives him a _shocked_ expression and Newt shoots a nasty look right back.  “Okay, dude, that’s _it_. Move. I need to show you how this is done.”

Pentecost gives him a stare that could turn a normal man to stone, but Newt is so far from normal and there’s no way he’s giving Pentecost the satisfaction. The maestro steps off the podium in silence and gives Newt an exaggerated sweep of his arm to indicate that yes, Newt has the floor. Newt hops up and pulls a baton out of the back of his shirt -- cheers to drum corps and their gimmicks for teaching him to _always_ come prepared to rehearsals -- and gives a huge smile to the ensemble. “We’re at rehearsal A.”

Hermann -- of fucking _course_ \-- raises his hand. “Certainly, Newton, you do not mean to conduct and play simultaneously?”

“Wrong, dude,” Newt says, holding his baton in his left hand and piccolo trumpet in his right. His conducting professor is probably screaming uncontrollably somewhere, but what the fuck _ever_ . He didn’t spend months learning this trick to let it go to _waste_ . “So, this movement starts in the French Baroque style, right? Except it’s not. It’s a _parody_ of it, a _mask_ to cover what’s underneath. You gotta lean _in_ to the sarcasm otherwise there’s never any payoff!”

The ensemble stares at him, half in acknowledgement and half still stunned that he would dare challenge the maestro’s opinion.

Good: fuck them all!

“Rehearsal A.” He has no need for music and is using the score on the conductor’s stand as a reference for the sake of the ensemble, rather than singing his own part to them. He gives a measure cue and he’s off. He has four measures alone in 4 to demonstrate _exactly_ what he wants, then come the ⅞ bars and the harpsichord and flute finally join him, then the rest of the woodwinds. He’s past paying attention to individual voices.

Newt _dances_ to show the mood -- it _is_ a dance, after all! One that has knives strapped to its feet, but should feel _light_ and _sarcastic_ and it shouldn’t be a surprise that this is Newt’s favorite movement of them all. It works itself up and up and up and then puts its mask back on to hide its true nature.

Just like Newt.

And the anxiety.

Which is nowhere to be found.

Maybe Pentecost is holding onto it as he stands by, watching Newt swing his hips to indicate crescendos and _flawlessly_ multitask?

Whatever, as long as it isn’t here. Newt releases the ensemble. “Cool, yeah! More like that! And coming into rehearsal F, more aggressive. The movement is Secrets’ _teeth_ \-- dig in! Get messy! Get _angry_! Let’s go!”

And before Pentecost can step back up to the podium, Newt gives the flutes their cue and they’re back at it. An absolute flurry of woodwinds, sharp as shattered glass, dance around with the solo trumpet. They’re not the _first_ warning sign, the first hint that something dark lurks behind the mask. Then it’s the brass, then the flutter tonguing in his own part, then --

Then the whole thing roars in _rage_. The brass bring back the first theme, dark and powerful, finally showing its true nature. Newt feels _sparks_ flying from all around him and it’s not because of the two _very_ different tasks his hands and arms are occupied with. He can sense the phantom emotional currents drifting all around him, all the anger and fear and anxiety and so _so_ much more, it’s almost overwhelming to be its conduit.

They _know_ what it’s like to keep a mask strapped on at all times.

Does Hermann?

Newt releases his note and frantically grabs for his mute. Pentecost holds it out to him and Newt shoves his trumpet down onto it. Who has time to use _hands_ when you’re busy being the musical lighthouse? Newt receives naught but a raised eyebrow in return and _growls_ for his entrance. He nods the beat to the ensemble as he yanks the mute out and he’s going, going, going --

The movement grows more percussive, heavier, more _bitter_. Newt soars above the chaos and embraces it wholly. He _is_ the music, he _is_ the tide of emotions, he is the confluence and _drift_ of all these people and sounds and emotions together. Did Pentecost take nothing in with him? Does he have no rage to offer, no self to pour into this frenzy, no axe to grind through mockery of musical styles? Well, if he _doesn’t_ , Newt has some to spare.

And back to harpsichord. Tendo clips the notes perfectly; a twinkling laugh and an invitation to dance, neither meant sincerely.

Always back to life behind the mask.

He stops the ensemble. He’s sweating as he turns to face Pentecost, whose face is utterly stoic.

“Anything else to add, Dr. Geiszler?” The maestro asks.

“Yeah, yeah! Y’all, grow some _fangs_. Get _angry_. Go fight with your _roommate_ or _anyone_ or hell, even _me_ and get your blood pumping!” Newt enthuses. “Like Palpatine says, feel the anger _flow_ through you. Embrace the dark side for once in your life! This whole piece is about violence; stop playing _nice_ and be _mean_! I know you can, you just gotta get your head in the game, you know?”

He hops off the podium and repositions his stand, then looks up to Pentecost. “Can we take it again at rehearsal G?”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Most conductors conduct right handed, and Newt would have learned right handed; it is entirely possible to conduct with your left like he does! His (and my own) professors would have serious Words regarding this if they saw it.
> 
> Newt's gimmick of pulling a baton out of the back of his shirt is VERY typical of drum corps drum majors (conductors), and perhaps the best know example is in [this show](https://youtu.be/-BnNGzkEuOA). While it's _well_ worth the whole watch, you can see examples at 2:10 and approximately 10:00. Seriously, though - it will REALLY get you amped up!
> 
> As always, please drop any feedback you have down below, and thank you for reading!


	4. 14 January - Hermann

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> "It's like everything you say is a sweet revelation  
> All I wanna do is get into your head  
> Yeah we could stay alone, you and me and this temptation  
> Sipping on your lips, hanging on by a thread, baby"
> 
> \-- Carly Rae Jepsen, "I Really Like You"

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The Chau Mansion Preview Concert:
> 
> Give Us This Day: Short Symphony for Wind Ensemble - David Maslanka  
> [I. Moderately Slow](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=e0CJq_ZbWl4)  
> [II. Fast](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=TFmETJzQF9I)
> 
> [Antique Violences: Concerto for Trumpet - John Mackey](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=OlGNaSfefmM&list=PLxgys7K06BAk8rVdKxQU1ShuidpSr29ZF)  
> I. The blooded lines  
> II. Secrets' teeth  
> III. Sorrow is a blade  
> IV. The curtain calls
> 
> [Ecstatic Waters - Steven Bryant](https://youtu.be/QHzp4phhW40)  
> I. Ceremony of Innocence  
> II. Augurs  
> III. The Generous Wrath of Simple Men  
> IV. The Loving Machinery of Justice  
> V. Spiritus Mundi
> 
> Additionally in this chapter:  
> [I Really Like You - Carly Rae Jepsen](https://youtu.be/qV5lzRHrGeg)
> 
> Recommended listening for this chapter is Antique Violences, especially once the concert begins. Unfortunately, I don't have a recording of Hermann's piece (and commissions for a piece of that magnitude would get VERY expensive VERY quickly), hopefully you can find it in your heart to forgive me.

 

10 January 2025

Hermann Gottlieb: Really, Newton? Were you surprised that you were called in after your performance this afternoon? What did you expect, a pat on the back? A bouquet?

Trumpet Buffoon: fuck off hermann

Trumpet Buffoon: you have no idea what the fuck you’re talking about

Trumpet Buffoon: just stop

Trumpet Buffoon: and leave me alone

[Trumpet Buffoon has set his name to Newt.]

 

Hermann Gottlieb: Would you like to talk about it?

 

Hermann Gottlieb: Newton?

 

Hermann Gottlieb: Newt?

* * *

30 December 2024

Herms: Do you have plans to celebrate the New Year, Newton?

[Herms has set his name to Hermann Gottlieb.]

Newt: yeah

Newt: packing everything i own into a suitcase and flying to hong kong to be in some ensemble

Newt: you know

Newt: the usual

Newt: you?

Hermann Gottlieb: No, none in particular.

Hermann Gottlieb: I would have thought you would have plans. Do you normally? Surely you aren’t booked for performances every holiday?

Newt: uh

Newt: herms

Newt: do you live on another planet?

Newt: one where you don’t play Messiah in the orchestra until midnight then go play in the fancy speakeasy recreation?

Newt: OR DO YOU??????

Hermann Gottlieb: I have performed with orchestras in the past for several holiday concerts, but have cut back recently to spend time composing. I have found that spending time in the quiet helps my creative process, but is not entirely a /necessity/ of composing.

Newt: yeah i’m sure you and BEETHOVEN can talk all about that!!!

Hermann Gottlieb: Hysterical.

Newt: no but really do you just not do anything?

Newt: because you deserve to

Hermann Gottlieb: Then by that same logic, Newton, don’t you as well?

Newt: awwwww Herms

Newt: you really know how to flatter a guy

[Newt has set Hermann Gottlieb’s name to Herms.]

[Herms has set his name to Hermann Gottlieb.]

Hermann Gottlieb: Have you had many performances this season? And is your current ensemble unhappy with your departure?

Newt: they’re probably throwing a party right now

Newt: i maybe was rude to the conductor?

Newt: but only like once

Newt: and i was right anyway

Newt: but nah

Newt: it’s been a different kind of season

Newt: so i’m happy to be jumping ship to PPWE

Newt: you?

Hermann Gottlieb: I’ve spent the month of December putting the finishing touches on the commissioned piece for PPWE, and doing my best to accommodate the wishes of the commissioner. There are some things that I’m uncomfortable with, but I trust that the piece will have a wonderful debut.

Hermann Gottlieb: At least, I hope so.

* * *

 **The Handwriting of God (2025)** is a four-movement work by renowned composer Dr. Hermann Gottlieb. Commissioned by Shao Industries to celebrate the inaugural Pan Pacific Wind Ensemble touring season, the piece draws on styles of several pan-Pacific countries. Dr. Gottlieb brings together Neo-Romantic, post-tonal, and polytonal elements in colorful and astonishing textures.

  1. First Law of Thermodynamics  
A governing principle of chemistry is that energy can neither be created nor destroyed in a contained system; this movement bursts with energy that ricochets through the ensemble, passing up from the brass to the woodwinds and back down again. The primary motif of the movement, a simple five-note figure, is introduced in the first measure. Much like Beethoven’s Fifth Symphony, the simple motif is developed into a theme that reappears in many forms throughout the movement.
  2. Inertia  
Only an external force can alter the velocity of an object and after the thrilling conclusion of the first movement, a percussive crash slows the momentum down. Fragments of the motif remain, but dynamics are the central motif of Inertia. Filled with quiet energy, this movement is a drastic change in pace, a moment of respite from the bombast of the first movement to prepare for the third.
  3. Sparks  
Life is inexplicable. There is no explanation for how life came to be on Earth; popular theories involve alien microorganisms landing on the planet while the atmosphere was still young. These precursors of life are represented by woodwind flourishes, and as they grow to marine life, these sparks grow into larger fires with deeper voices. Murmurs of the motif return. Small motifs rise, but die back down before they have a chance to truly flourish.
  4. That which lies beyond science  
While life itself is a mystery, the enigma of human consciousness lies beyond science. The motif of the first movement returns in a spectacular fashion, heralded first in the trumpet section and swelling to include the entire ensemble in a polytonal, unison repetition. War is waged between man, all that has come before it, and all that will come after it; whether mankind is aided or in battle with its successors is never answered.



 

* * *

12 January 2025

Newt: need anything from amazon?

Newt: i gotta place a huge order

Newt: i’m getting like eight masks

Newt: one for every day of the week

Newt: the smog is starting to get to me

Newt: they have a mask with a fair isle pattern on it

Newt: but it’s not in brown monochrome

Hermann Gottlieb: I would appreciate the order, Newton. Please let me know how much to send you.

Hermann Gottlieb: A plain black mask will do.

Newt: nah man

Newt: i got you this time

* * *

13 January 2025

Newt: mail drone just dropped our masks off

Newt: i promise no one’s gonna get angry cause you text in rehearsal

Newt: what’s pentecost going to do?

Newt: kick his composer out?

 

Hermann Gottlieb: If you had a shred of sense, Newton, you’d remember that the android orchestra is using your sound and at any time, you can be replaced with a version of yourself that talks less and plays when told to. One that doesn’t usurp the conductor. On the other hand, Shao has yet to invent a robot that can take my position. I’ll thank you to not drag me down to your level.

[Newt has set Hermann Gottlieb’s name to bASSoon.]

[bASSoon has set his name to Hermann Gottlieb.]

 

* * *

 **14 January 2025  
** Chau Mansion Preview Concert

Hermann knows that _something_ is going on with Newton.

It lurked in the messages and it broke free of the prison Newt has been keeping it in four days ago, and Newt seemed to have immediately righted the boat and contained it once again. It only took him a long sleep to shake off the funk he developed the day of that fateful rehearsal, but Hermann can see the cracks now. Having become attuned to Newt’s rhythms can tell that something has changed for the other man.

Maybe it didn’t _change_. Maybe it was there all along. Maybe Hermann just wasn’t looking at Newton under the right light.

Newton still plays beautifully, of course -- his concerto is a volatile masterpiece of anger and war, lies and love. Not that Hermann would ever tell him this, but he admires the way Newton has infused the piece with so much of himself, how he has poured his life story into the writing of a composer he never knew. He knows Newton would bring his piece to life in a way that the android never will be able to. But that is not the reality of the premiere, no matter how dearly Hermann wishes it could be.

The entire ensemble will be going to see the android orchestra the day after tomorrow. He’s already met with the lead android programmer for his piece in preparation for the premiere to discuss small stylistic changes, but will not be able to hear the android in the ensemble until after the orchestra’s performance. Hermann is displeased by that, but will live with it.

It’s currently 06:00, and the schedule is set with Hermann’s piece first this morning. They’ll be doing a full runthrough of tonight’s repertoire in the early afternoon, then departing on private buses for the Chau performance. Hermann has seen the ostentatious tie Newton plans to wear and while he disapproves, he admits it suits the man well.

Newton is still asleep, as he always is in the early mornings. He won’t be called until after lunch, since he’s not performing Hermann’s piece, and has the morning to do as he pleases. Hermann tosses the blanket Newton discarded some time in his sleep back over the man’s prone form and resists the urge to reach up and ruffle his hair. Vain, infuriating, _marvelous_ Newton. It’s going to be a long day for all of them, and there is no harm in allowing him to sleep.

Hermann packed his bags for today last night, and now puts the backpack on in preparation to head to the concert hall. In addition to his normal rehearsal equipment, his laptop, pencil set, extra score, and baton all rest safely inside, along with printed errata to present to musicians for whom it is relevant. He takes his bassoon in one hand, cane in the other, and walks out the door.

* * *

Itinerary for 14 January 2025

Rehearsal

09:00 - Gottlieb

11:30 - Lunch

13:00 - Full program

 

Performance

17:00 - Board buses

18:00 - Arrive at performance venue

19:30 - Performance

22:00 - Board buses for return

23:00 - Return to hotel, end of evening

 

Chau Preview Program

Give Us This Day

Antique Violences

Ecstatic Waters

 

* * *

“Thank you. Clarinets, a little heavier at rehearsal B -- land as you come down the scale. Saxophones, don’t wait on the sixteenth notes, but push the beat ahead ever so slightly as the clarinets pass them off to you.”

Hermann is conducting his piece with a live ensemble for the first time and feels as though he is a lightning rod. All at once he is drinking in the energy of the ensemble and returning his own to them; he is _alive_ with the knowledge that he created _this_ and he is the one to guide it into this world with his baton. He’s conducted before, but doesn’t remember it being this _much_. If making music is the confluence of eighty people’s emotions, this is what it is to be the conduit that they all flow through before arriving with the audience.

He walked in this morning to find a conductor’s chair on the podium and a note of support from Pentecost. The tall chair is a thoughtful gesture, and one that Hermann is appreciative of. He sits with his right leg extended for balance and left foot tucked on the foot rest, baton in his right hand and a small grin on his face.

The maestro now sits in the audience, following along with the score. Newton’s seat in the ensemble is conspicuously empty.

“We’ll begin again at rehearsal B.” Hermann gives a preparatory beat and they’re back in. The clarinets rush down their scale and the brass explodes with the primary motif of the movement.

Science has lent names to this piece, but something beyond the explanation of the rational has always given music its power. When boiled down, music is just organized sound waves, and their interaction with the human ear is pleasing. To appreciate all of these things, one must understand the science of sound and have a capacity for human emotion -- both incredibly impossible things, and yet Hermann stands directing these sound waves toward their final home in the listener’s ear. Hermann grafted them onto paper and these people are breathing their life into them.

The brass swallow the saxophones whole. Hermann’s five-note motif, the one he sat at a piano to write for ages, begins in the depths of the ensemble and is now exerting its force over flurries of woodwinds. Here, in the first full statement by the brass, it is elongated in whole notes, with the tubas sustaining a pedal tone beneath the chaos.

Hermann stops the ensemble. “Trumpets, more detached as you separate from the rest of the brass -- your notes should be shorter and less legato. Just trumpets, there, please.”

His phone lights up as he gives the pickup. A message appears, then three more in rapid succession: _want me to get the programmer on the phone? Cause I can. Just for you. The android’ll do you right._

Hermann stops the trumpets and gives a nod of approval. He pushes the seat of the chair around and gazes into the audience to find one principal trumpet player glued to his phone, madly typing; Hermann’s phone is now constantly lit with the barrage of messages.

“Is there anything you’d like to share with the ensemble, Newton?” Hermann pinches the bridge of his nose. Newton all but jumps out of his seat, nodding eagerly. He rushes toward the stage, but does not climb the stairs to join the rest of the ensemble, rather staying below and staring up at Hermann.

“So, Herms, this piece? Is _great_. But the first law of thermodynamics means there’s _energy_ , doesn’t it? So why are y’all playing like you’re asleep at the wheel? Especially you, Chuck!” Chuck scoffs. Newton looks right at Hermann and points an accusatory finger. “And _you_ , why are you conducting like you’re in a coma? Wake up! Didn’t you write this thing?”

Hermann frowns. “From rehearsal B, per my directions. Thank you, Newton.” He cues the ensemble and they begin again. Newton hasn’t moved from his position just below the stage to Hermann’s right. He can _feel_ Newton’s disapproval and doesn’t care -- this is _his_ masterpiece, not Newton’s. When he gets the chance, he flips his phone over on his stand, still illuminated with messages pouring in from Newton. With the same hand, he gives the brass their cue. Newton is not the one whose interpretation matters in this moment.

The trumpets give him the detached sound he was after and they press forward.

How did Hermann ever think that writing _this_ piece with a, a _machine_ playing in the ensemble was doing the work any kind of justice? In the fourth movement, the trumpet proclaims the return of the motif, meant to be an affirmation of humanity and its triumph into the future. Instead, Hermann realizes as he hears humans play this for the first time, that it will be a triumph of _androids_ over humans. The emotion is sucked out of it and replaced with a soulless being.

 _Newton_ , infuriating, self-righteous, impish _Newton_ should be playing it. Human Newton, who probably hasn’t ironed his shirt for this evening, whose ego exceeds that of any trumpet player Hermann has ever met, who Hermann is drawn to like a moth to flame.

Liwen be damned.

* * *

14 January 2025

Newt: herms what the FUCK

Newt: you’re just going to let that happen?

 

Newt: i mean you’re lucky you’ll have a trumpet player who can play this

Newt: he might not be human but he’s gonna sound AWESOME

Newt: your trumpet player is neo-n00t

Newt: seriously i can just go back and kick their asses into gear

[Newt has set his name to N00t.]

 

N00t: maybe you should get more androids

N00t: then they’ll play the way you want them to

* * *

Afternoon rehearsal passed without consequence and Hermann feels prepared for the concert this evening. He’d had words with Newton over lunch; Newton spared no energy telling him how excited he is for the android to play in the ensemble. A rousing conversation had followed regarding Hermann’s motivic development in his piece and what lead him to use five notes. He’s read Newton’s messages from rehearsal, but has chosen to ignore them, rather than give credit to Newton’s ludicrous ideas.

Newton wasted no time getting back to their rooms after the full runthrough ended; Hermann took his time to talk to members of the ensemble about the performance. He’s riding back up in the elevator now, humming the Maslanka to himself. He and Newton are on one of the higher floors, and the other ensemble members he was riding with cleared out several floors ago. The bell _dings_ his arrival and he steps out of the elevator, still humming. They have about about an hour and a half until they’re scheduled to leave on the buses, which gives him more than enough time to change into his tuxedo and load his bassoon into the travel crates.

There’s loud music coming from their rooms, and as he holds his phone up to the scanner, he sighs heavily. Newton likes to play loud music while he gets dressed in the morning, and Hermann has no doubt that this will be an extended session of the usual deluge of pop music.

(Though he won’t admit it to anyone, least of all Newton, he enjoys it. Most of the time. Some of the time. Well, always, because Newton will dance to it and shimmy around the room with a smile lighting his face. The music is secondary, maybe.)

“Hermann, finally! I was beginning to think you were moving in with Tendo instead of me!” Newton has his slacks on, but is only wearing an undershirt with his dress shirt unbuttoned over the top. “Do you know anything about Hannibal Chau? I’ve been reading about him all day but _still_ can’t get a good handle on him.”

The song changes; Newton often plays this one. A young woman sings: _“I really wanna stop but I just got the taste for it…”_ and Hermann cannot help but agree with her sentiments. “Mr. Chau was gracious enough to sponsor part of this ensemble, and I haven’t thought to investigate him. He seems like a private individual; why else would we give a preview to an audience limited to 200 guests? To attend this concert, you must be personally invited.”

 _“I really really really really really really like you, and I want you, do you want me, do you want me too?”_ Newton’s phone sings.

“But, Newton, what did you discover?” Hermann feels his ears flushing from the lyrics.

“Eh, not a lot. He has rumored connections to the mafia in like, seven countries, but no one has been able to confirm because he does all this philanthropic work and donates like, _buckets_ of cash whenever someone asks.” Newton scoots into the bathroom and begins running a comb through his unruly hair. “I guess the question is, what matters more: money or the law?”

“An interesting conundrum, to be certain.” Hermann begins undressing and folds his clothes in a neat pile as he goes. “And, of course, we’re complicit in his actions because of our, our performance this evening.”

“Chill out, Herms, no one is going to come busting into the concert to arrest us!” Newton leans back from the mirror, laughing. “Besides, if they did, you’d be the last person they’d take into custody. I mean, since you won’t be committing any crimes against fashion this evening. Unless you have a fair isle tux?”

Hermann can only sigh as he places one foot on a chair to untie his shoe. _“Who gave you eyes like that, said you could keep them?”_ Newton _must_ know how Hermann feels about him; why else would he turn this song on, if not to torture Hermann? He places both untied shoes next to one another and takes advantage of the moment Newton is still in another room to change his pants.

“Hardly. If I _did_ own one, I would abstain from wearing it this evening. The directions were very specific regarding dress attire.” He pulls his tuxedo shirt on one sleeve at a time, appreciating its fresh dry cleaning against his skin. “Besides, _I_ am not the one wearing a hideous tie this evening.”

“I have a, uh, kinda big favor to ask? I know, major left turn, but I gotta ask, dude.” Newton walks out of the bathroom, placing his glasses back on and taking something out of his pocket. “I have like, _really_ bad asthma. I didn’t want to say anything to anyone but that’s why I ordered the masks. I’ve been having some _bad_ attacks lately, and I, um, wanted to ask if you’d take my extra inhaler? Just cause, you know, we kinda live together and --”

Newton has stepped across the line into Hermann’s personal space and holds out an inhaler.

The top half of Hermann’s shirt is buttoned, and his fly and button on his pants are undone. Hermann is keenly aware of the shape of the rings under Newton’s shirt, exactly where --

_“I really really really really really really like you, and I want you, do you want me, do you want me too?”_

Hermann accepts the offered inhaler. “Of course, Newton. Thank you for trusting me with it.” He smiles. “Is there anything else you’d like to share while we’re here?”

“Oh! Oh, well, uh, no, not right now!” Newton is bright pink and standing so, so close. “Unless you want, like, my full medical history, which is long and complicated and _really_ not good hype material for a concert. But you know what is?”

They share an expectant glance, both flushed.

Newton steps away and the moment ends. “Disco!”

ABBA pours from the phone.

Hermann finishes buttoning his shirt and tucks it into his pants and does up the zip and button. He touches the backs of his fingers to his burning cheeks to confirm the color on them and _oh_ , what an effect Newton has on him.

“There are 200 guests tonight, yeah? D’you think Liwen’s gonna show up?” Newton is buttoning his shirt, at long last. “And do you think Hannibal the Mannibal is gonna show his face at this thing? There are like, no pictures of him _at all_ . He’s _super_ secretive.”

“I would hope that our benefactor would hear at least _one_ piece,” Hermann says, putting his cufflinks on. “However secretive he might be, this concert was added to the schedule by his request and donation.”

“Huh, weird. I know Tendo and Pentecost had a video call with me to ask if it was cool to learn a concerto, since it wasn’t part of the original lineup,” Newt says, fishing his vest out of a suitcase. The iron has already been heated and the board is out, and he presses it haphazardly. “Apparently, Hannibal had a few requests, and one of them was a player’s choice trumpet concerto, so long as that choice wasn’t classical or, god fucking _forbid_ , some bullshit Baroque concerto.”

“We received our notifications of acceptance before that, unless you knew prior to receiving your contract that you would be principal trumpet?”

“Nah, dude, like two days after. I emailed my contract back and got a call from Tendo asking to talk. I picked this, and I guess Pentecost did the rest!”

“According to Tendo, it was the _last_ performance to be added to the overall calendar.” Hermann says.

“Really?” Newton is digging around the bottom of the closet for _something_. He fishes out two brilliant opal-blue cufflinks and holds them aloft like a prize. “Huh. So this was the last concerto programmed for the whole season? I mean, unless Pentecost hasn’t programmed _everything_ yet, which makes like, total sense, given that it’s ten months of concerts.”

“It would stand to reason, yes.” Hermann buttons his black vest into place and takes his tie off its hanger. “Which is why it’s so surprising that Ms. Shao chose to change the program for the android orchestra performance to align with ours. Regardless, I’m interested to hear the orchestral arrangement of Ecstatic Waters.”

Hermann deftly ties his bowtie as Newton fusses with his cufflinks. He sighs and holds out a hand, gesturing for Newton to hand them over. Newton steps closer and allows Hermann to clip them into place.

“That android concert is just for us, yeah?” Newton asks as he buttons his own vest and holds his untied bowtie up. The fascinating material is eye-catching, and to show his appreciation, Hermann frowns. “I’ll take that as a resounding Hermann-yes. Dude, it’s gonna be _fucking sick_! I can’t wait to hear myself play something I’ve never played before. I mean, maybe I _have_ played it, but won’t be playing it live for that audience. How _fucking awesome_.”

He straightens his bowtie and flashes a winning smile in the mirror, catching Hermann’s eye there. Hermann returns a small grin.

“While I do not share your enthusiasm for the androids, I look forward to the concert. It will be a welcome change of pace from our normal routine, and will give me a good idea of what to expect for the premiere.” Hermann has been wearing black socks all day, and sits down to put his dress shoes on.

“Look, Herms, sooner or later you’re gonna have to accept that the androids aren’t so bad, and that one is gonna be playing your piece in like, a week.” Newton is wearing turquoise socks and Hermann can practically hear every music teacher he’s ever had sound off at once in his skull, insisting on black socks or death. “Try to be excited, maybe?”

Both take their jackets out of the closet simultaneously. Newton shrugs his on and tugs his shirtsleeves down; Hermann pulls his on one arm at a time, minding the sleeves as he goes. They share a final look in the mirror.

“For you, Newton, I will do my best.”

* * *

The Chau mansion is opulent and oppressively large. The ensemble has been given a dining hall to use as their green room, and in every corner, there is a grand display of food. Hermann can only assume that the dragons decorating this hall are made of pure gold, and the grapefruit-sized stones in their eyes are solid jade. Opulent, yes, and most definitely _tacky_.

The concert is being held in the mansion’s grand hallway; an acoustic shell has been brought in specially for the occasion. Tendo has been setting up the electronics for the Bryant. Newton has set his mute stand out in preparation for his concerto. The ensemble has been warming up in the green room. Everything running on schedule, and all indicators of a perfect evening. Maybe, if Hermann is lucky, after Newton’s concerto --

“You. You’re Gottlieb, right?” A man with white-blond hair and sunglasses is speaking to Hermann. In the crowd of black-clad ensemble members, he stands out like a sore thumb, but in the mansion, he seems to be part of the decor.

“ _Doctor_ Gottlieb, that’s correct. And you are…?” Hermann extends a hand. The man does not take it.

“Hannibal Chau.” Chau doesn’t offer his hand in return. Clad in a red and black velvet damask suit and gold-shelled shoes, Hermann is almost surprised that there are so few pictures of him, given his rather bold choice of attire. “Listen. How much is it gonna cost me for you to pull the android?”

“I - I beg your pardon?” Hermann says, shocked.

“Your work’s too good for that bullshit. Big fan. How much are we talking? Five figures?” Chau puts his hands on his hips.

“I’m so sorry, Mr. Chau, but given the, the sponsorship, I’m afraid that’s out of the question.” Hermann breaks from their space and Chau moves to follow.

“You’re full of shit, _Doc_ . You think I can’t buy Shao out? You think she can just do what she wants because she wants it? We both know that’s not true.” Chau frowns, open-mouthed, showing a gold tooth. _Ostentatious_.

“How did you know we were using any of the androids? And that it was for my premiere?” Hermann asks. “And that Shao commissioned it?”

“Like I said: big fan. I’ve got ears everywhere. Your buddy Pentecost? More willing to share than you might think.” Chau smirks. “Besides, you _really_ think Shao could stop boasting that she’d bagged you to write for her? Ha!”

Hermann feels unsettled. This piece has been hidden from the public eye to draw audiences in for the premiere concert, and here stands the proof that any information can be bought. He furrows his brow.

“I appreciate the interest, Mr. Chau, but what you’re asking cannot be purchased. As you are obviously aware, Ms. Shao commissioned the piece to include an android, and an android it will include.” Hermann says definitively.

Tendo gives a shout that they’re clear to take the stage and the ensemble, en masse, leaves the green room.

“Think on it. Offer’s good until the end of the night.” Chau waves with one hand, gold shoes clicking as he walks away. Hermann sighs, tucks his folder under his arm, picks up his bassoon, and follows the crowd.

A lighting rig has been installed for the evening, and the lights are bright on the black marble floors; Hermann is glad of the acoustic shell, otherwise the sound would be too live and become muddied to the ear. His shoes and cane click reassuringly against the expensive floor as he takes the stage.

Each of the 200 seats has been filled, and Hannibal Chau sits in the front row with none other than Liwen Shao on his left side. In stark contrast to Chau’s gaudy suit, Shao is in a crisp black dress with a cape hanging off her shoulders, elegant neck emphasized by long golden earrings. Hermann can’t help but stare as Tendo thanks the audience for coming this evening, for Chau’s patronage, and for keeping the art of music alive. He offers information about the premiere and future concerts.

Pentecost steps out from behind the acoustic shell to polite applause and bows. He ascends the podium, holds his baton aloft, gives a preparatory beat, and the concert begins.

Hermann’s thoughts swim as Give Us This Day begins. How can he possibly rectify Newton playing his piece if it means handing Hannibal Chau a victory? But, how can he possibly give a premiere of this piece without a fully human ensemble, without _Newton_ ? How can he give a _commissioned premiere_ without the thing that is the linchpin of the commission? And how can he make the right decision without giving up his integrity?

In contrast to the light woodwind and vibraphone beginning, Hermann’s entrance with the euphoniums and French horns is filled with gravitas, with an earthly quality that introduces the dichotomy of heaven and earth in the piece. The piece shimmers with light from every angle, and even in the darkness, there is joy and reverence.

Hermann stops thinking and is engulfed in the music. The swells of the ensemble wash around him, embracing him and reminding him that _this_ is all there is, that the _music_ is all that matters. The descending eighth note motif takes over, like warm sighs of relief while still driving down into the low brass; as the notes shorten in value and become more insistent, Hermann loses himself to the music.

His self is gone: all that remains is his sound. He offers up all that he has and _knows_ that he is worthy, that he has become all he ever will be. Once again, the first movement shrinks back down to sustained whole notes; ethereal light shines like a beacon through their horns.

Cascades of triplets signal the second movement: they are insistent and endless and traveling in opposite directions. Flurries of notes sweep through the ensemble, surging beneath Pentecost’s baton. He feels the current of emotion all around him, charged and powerful and nearly overwhelming; these many hearts, beating as one, joining their sound to become so much more than the sum of its parts.

All too soon the piece ends; soloists are called to stand and Pentecost bows once more. Hermann is still somewhere far beyond the reality of the world, lost in the buzz of performance. He places the Maslanka back into the folder pocket and draws the music for Newton’s concerto, placing it on his stand with the corners turned up for page turns.

Newton steps out of the ensemble and arrays his trumpets around where he will be standing and places his mute rack on a small table, brought from backstage by Tendo. He gives the audience a winning smile and a deep bow, takes a deep breath, then nods to Pentecost. Pentecost cues Mako and the piece begins.

Mako plays the tight rolls and flourishes demanded of the piece with obvious ease; she makes it sound as though it’s the easiest thing in the world to play. The rhythmic percussion join her as she pushes ahead, the sole drummer of a revolution.

Newton in performance is a _wonder_. Pentecost may be conducting, but it is _Newton_ who generates the energy; Newton rolls his shoulders and neck and sways his hips ever so slightly as he prepares for his first entrance. He breathes, and the piece comes _alive_ with the very essence of what makes Newton human.

The brilliant, bright opening is buoyed on a dark undercurrent of disquiet brass; Newton embodies perfectly the seemingly unaware melody. As he exits the music, the high woodwinds seem to become more shrill; Newton enters with a new, more modal melody and injects a wry humor into the piece. It is sarcastic and dark and filled with humor and bitter laughter, it is at once anxious and self-assured…

And Hermann knows, knows in his bones, why Newton chose _this_ concerto above the dozens of others available to him.

He _understands_ what Newton has been trying to tell him for days now. What the gesture of giving him his inhaler -- which currently rests next to Hermann’s phone in his breast pocket -- truly meant.

He wants to grab Newton and tell him the moment this concert is over, to tell him it’s alright to be anxious, to assure him that he doesn’t need to wear the mask all the time.

The high woodwinds play dissonant strains of the first melody as Newton plays the second melody over the top, now more aggressive and baring its teeth. The first movement swells and dances through time signatures, changing every measure and growing more demanding as each one passes by. Pentecost remains a stalwart keeper of time and Newton continues to conduct emotion like he has been supercharged.

Which, if Hermann thinks about it -- and he does as the first movement ends on a high trumpet note -- Newton has been conserving all his emotion to pour into these twenty minutes.

The second movement begins with Tendo on the harpsichord and Newton, dazzling Newton, playing in a Baroque style, almost dance-like in shape and how the two musicians play off one another. Their friendship lights their playing with a soft glow, and as the ensemble enters, the sparks begin to fly. The brass yawns and Newton _explodes_ like a package of fireworks.

Hermann has played this concerto in rehearsal enough to be familiar with its twists and turns, but somehow, this evening, Newton has shaded it ever so differently to bring out the darkness, and making it seem as though the woodwinds are the kindness in this movement. The brassy laughter, the false humor, and the trumpet flashing over them all.

Quiet, but only for a moment -- Newton soars above the gossiping brass and woodwind laughter behind hands with the introductory Baroque melody, a match thrown into an eager powder keg. With Newt at its center, the ensemble _roars_ to life, all kindness forgotten and mask of decency smashed. As one, they shout, anger seeping out, memories of unkind words, and then, the mask is replaced; a gentle Pichardy third ends the movement in a major key, an affirmation that a smile and thank you will solve every problem.

Hermann is _breathless_ from the angry staccatos that poured out of him and the third, so much like his and Newton’s many disagreements.

The third movement is the slow movement, an elegy. Hermann has a long time until his entrance, and in his rests, appreciates the _depth_ of Newton’s sound. Tendo’s punchy harpsichord has transformed into gentle, mournful piano, reminiscent of Debussy and glittering with the same quality of soft sunshine from Give Us This Day. The bowed vibraphone makes Hermann’s teeth hurt in the best of ways.

And _oh_ , he can _feel_ the lament and heartache in Newton’s playing as he tenderly enters on his flugelhorn. Hermann is keenly aware that none of that could be for him, making the blade of sorrow twist painfully in his chest. Newton may not hate Hermann -- he may, in fact, trust him -- but that does not mean he will _love_ Hermann in return. Hermann feels each drop and swell ring through his body, the blade of anguish guided by Newton, as though Newton can peer into his mind and draw forth his deepest desires and fears.

Hermann finally plays a countermelody in dissonance with the trombones as Newton continues to sing above them, all dappled sunshine through a dense forest of sorrow. Is after the concert the right time to tell Newton of his feelings? Could he bare himself in that way, knowing rejection is more than likely?

Newton plays an imitation of an American funerary bugle call. It is a shockingly sweet moment in the piece, and in rehearsal, has lacked the grief and sorrow the entire ensemble is filling it with now. Beneath the solo trumpet stirs a potent cocktail of confusion and disquiet, discordant in pitch but perfectly resonant with the mood. Unlike the second movement, it does not end in a major key -- the sorrow is left where it is, leaving room for fear and anger to take its place.

And, just as Newton lowers his trumpet, Mako and the percussion burst back to life. They’re off like a shot, aimed from Pentecost’s baton at the audience, all the themes from previous movements returning in reverse, in fragments, all weaponized to make the final push. Grief from the third movement makes an appearance, but the melodies of the first two movements return to mock it; woodwind flourishes fly by, angry screaming birds zooming by. The movement _flies_ by in a whirlwind of anger and mockery, vicious emotion and blistering hot trumpet above the chaos. Newton unleashes his final note as the entire ensemble hits a wall and holds over just past Pentecost’s release. He lowers his trumpet, panting, and bows deeply.

The audience are on their feet, applauding wildly. Hermann can see Shao lean to say something to Chau; both smile and continue to applaud. Newton bows again and again and gestures to the ensemble to stand. Pentecost bows with him and Tendo emerges to announce a twenty minute intermission. Newt gathers his trumpets and mutes and makes a beeline off stage in the direction opposite of where Hermann is seated.

So much for congratulating Newton.

* * *

Hermann is standing in the green room and sipping water when his phone begins to buzz. He has it set to its lowest vibration setting, and wouldn’t feel it were it not close to his body. There are messages from Newton and he takes off at a near-run reading them.

N00t: herms pls help

N00t: herms it’s urgent

N00t: i’m outside

N00t: asthma

He rushes past dozens of people, many offering him congratulations; he can only nod and give a brief “thank you” without pausing. The grand hallway opens onto a beautiful courtyard, if memory serves correctly and -- it does. There, about a hundred feet away to Hermann’s left, leaning heavily against a low wall is Newton; his legs look like they’re about to give out from underneath him. With him stands Chau, shaking his head.

“For the love of god! What’s it gonna take? You want six figures? You want your own island! Fuck it! I’ll give it all to you!” Chau is nearly shouting as Hermann makes his way over. Panic shines in Newton’s eyes. “And you! Have you reconsidered?”

Newton collapses, still awake and wheezing heavily.

“Mr. Chau. Newton and I both appreciate your offer, but as you can _clearly_ see, he’s not feeling well at the moment.” With shaking hands, Hermann reaches into his pocket and plucks the inhaler out. He sits on the low wall, manhandling Newton so his head is almost in his lap, keeping him upright. Newton coughs painfully. Chau looks unphased by the tableau unfolding before him.

“Now, if you’re quite done, would you kindly leave us alone?” Hermann says pointedly. Chau turns and storms away without another word. Hermann holds the inhaler to Newton’s face. “Newton. Newton, I need you to breathe with me. In through your mouth, out through your nose.”

Newton weakly sucks in air and as he does, Hermann pushes down on the trigger and medication aerates. “Good. Again, Newton.” They repeat the process. Newton’s breathing slowly begins to stabilize; his limbs go limp and he sags in Hermann’s lap. Hermann feels the adrenaline drain all at once from his bloodstream.

“Is it the air quality? Tell me what I can do, Newton.” Hermann rests a hand on the other man’s head and immediately worries it may be too intimate a gesture. Newton doesn’t seem to care as he clutches Hermann’s sleeve for dear life.

Tendo comes running out, Pentecost shortly behind. “What’s going on? Newt?” Pentecost kneels in front of them.

“Attack. Couldn’t...breathe,” Newton says weakly, still wheezing. “Better now. Herms...helped.”

“Thank you, Dr. Gottlieb.” Pentecost nods to Hermann in acknowledgement. “What can we do? Will you be able to play the final piece?”

“He needs to be inside. Newton thought it was wise to not inform you of a medical condition he has that is not helped by the poor air quality.” Hermann explains. Newt nods in agreement.

“Let’s get you inside. Then, we will make the decision if you’re fit to play the Bryant.” Pentecost pulls one of Newton’s arms around his shoulders. “Tendo. A little help?”

Tendo rushes to take Newton’s other arm and together, they all walk back in, calm as could be. Hermann follows them as best he can, knee twinging with pain. He’ll pay for his little sprint, but it was well worth it. He’s still clutching Newton’s inhaler in his hand.

“A pity, isn’t it?” A voice asks as he shuffles by. He pauses. Liwen Shao is sipping from a champagne flute. “Dr. Gottlieb, a pleasure to see you again. I’m so sorry to hear about Dr. Geiszler’s unfortunate turn of events this evening.”

“Delighted as well, Ms. Shao. Thank you for your well wishes.” Hermann accepts Shao’s extended hand for a brief, but strong shake.

“You’ll be glad to know that my androids will never suffer from any similar...problems.” She turns her head and smiles, earrings flashing under the lights. “Rest assured that nothing will endanger the performance of your piece, at least, as far as my involvement extends.”

Hermann forces a smile. “Much appreciated. Now, if you’ll excuse me, I must be getting backstage.”

She nods. “Of course. We will be in touch soon, Dr. Gottlieb.”

Hermann’s fist clenches on his cane. How _dare_ she! Newton is more than just, just a _trained monkey_ who performs on command. He is so much more than what he can provide as a musician. Newton is a whole person, one capable of extraordinary things, and even if he has a tendency toward chaos, Hermann has _heard_ the brilliant music he makes and has _seen_ and shared the workings of his magnificent mind.

As he returns to the green room and sees Newton holding a glass of water in a shaking hand, his mind is made up. Newton, pale with deep bags under his eyes, flashes him a peace sign. Hermann grins and waves in return.

He won’t be accepting Hannibal Chau’s offer.

He won’t have an android play his piece.

Newton will perform the work, and no price could ever be put on that performance.

“We added an extra five minutes to intermission for Newt,” Tendo is suddenly at Hermann’s arm, whispering. “He’s doing okay, but we want to make sure. Can you keep an eye on him?”

“Of course.”

“And Hermann? Thanks for being there. There’s no telling what would have happened without you.”

“Don’t be foolish. I’m sure someone would have realized what was going on and helped.”

“Whatever helps you sleep, my friend.”

* * *

Ecstatic Waters was the perfect choice to conclude an explosive performance. Hermann is pleased with his playing this evening. They’re on the bus back to the hotel now, Hannibal Chau firmly refuted.

Newton’s head rests on his shoulder as the imp naps. Hermann is afraid to move, fearing the smallest motion will wake Newton and send him back into an asthma attack. Newton gave a stellar performance, despite shaking the entire way and needing his assistant to hold long notes. Hermann had cast glances back to him whenever he was able, worried he might faint if allowed to continue playing.

“You absolute fool. Don’t scare me like that again, or next time, you will not enjoy the outcome. You don’t need to hide from me, Newton.” He whispers.

And the response, so quiet Hermann might be imagining it: “Wouldn’t dream of it, Herms.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A Pichardy third is an ending to a piece of music in a minor key to make it major; it's a very popular technique that people either find very tasteful or in extremely poor taste. I personally think it depends on the situation!
> 
> I've threatened on more than one occasion to get a full-chest tattoo saying BLACK SOCKS because, inevitably, someone shows up to the performance in hot pink socks. If Newt was in my ensemble, you bet your bananas I wouldn't let him on stage until he found black socks (or a Sharpie, or electrical tape...). 
> 
> THANK YOU for your amazing comments! I'm doing my best to respond to every one of you and leave you music to keep you going until the next chapter drops.


	5. 16 January - Newt

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> “When you read  
> The books you most love for the last time, you see  
> The great works of the imagination get better and better.  
> Wen you come to that passage where, arrayed in battalions,  
> With all their flashing armor and flapping banners  
> And bright wings fanning the starlight, the heavenly host  
> Throws down its spears, you wonder, although you’ve read it  
> A hundred times, “Will it really happen again?”  
> And when it does, you are surprised.”
> 
> \- "Mark Strand" by Joseph Harrison

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> In this chapter:
> 
> Ecstatic Waters - Steven Bryant (orchestral arrangement by the composer)  
> I. The Ceremony of Innocence  
> II. Augurs  
> III. The Generous Wrath of Simple Men  
> IV. The Loving Machinery of Justice  
> V. Spiritus Mundi
> 
> [Symphony no. 5 - Ludwig van Beethoven](https://youtu.be/1lHOYvIhLxo)  
> I. Allegro con bio  
> II. Andante con moto  
> III. Scherzo: Allegro  
> IV. Allegro - Presto

* * *

 

_“I’ll be damned, you’ve done it,” Hannibal says. “You’ve recorded for her. Why? What’s in it for you?”_

_“Maybe. A little? Yeah, I did,” Newt nods. “I did it because I’m a fucking rock star, dude, and my sound is going to live on forever.”_

_“You goddamn idiot! Don’t you realize? She can wipe you out. Completely! No more wind ensemble, no more nothing.” Hannibal waves his arms in a wipeout gesture. “You want that? You really want to see that happen? Some fucking robot play your concerto?”_

_“I mean, I still have a job, right?” Newt laughs uneasily. “At least for the next ten months.”_

_“Listen, kid. You know why Liwen sponsored this whole shebang? You really know? And you know what your precious Gottlieb did for it?” Hannibal crowds him, pointing an accusatory finger. “You have no_ fucking _clue, do you?”_

_“Uh, no?” Newt can feel his chest tightening painfully. First the anxiety, now the asthma. It’s not the bad air, no, that’s not at all why he gave Hermann the inhaler. He knew the anxiety was gonna hit like a truck and send everything down like dominos but holy fuck --_

_Did Hermann know this whole time?_

_“This whole thing is just her elaborate way of showing the world how useless you all are! She’s sponsoring you and putting out all this promotional material, but who’s it all for? You? Your ensemble? It’s for_ her _, kid! She gets the glory and the credit, not you!” Hannibal waves his arms again._

_Newt shoots a message off to Hermann: “herms pls help” and hopes desperately that it’s enough._

_Hannibal rips his sunglasses off. “Listen. You want to live forever? Fine. But this isn’t the way to go. Shao’s not gonna help you. I’m your only way out.”_

_Newt sends three more messages: “herms it’s urgent. I’m outside. Asthma.”_

_Newt coughs. He’s dizzy and the world is spinning and did he text Hermann? His legs shake. Hannibal sighs dramatically and replaces his glasses._

_“Not interested, but thanks anyway,” He chokes out._

_“For the love of god! What’s it gonna take? You want six figures? You want your own island! Fuck it! I’ll give it all to you!” Hannibal shouts. Hermann is practically running towards them. “And you! Have you reconsidered?”_

_Newt can’t hold himself up any more. Hermann moves closer to Newt and draws him into a seated position, holding Newt’s head between his knees. “Mr. Chau. Newton and I both appreciate your offer, but as you can clearly see, he’s not feeling well at the moment. Now, if you’re quite done, would you kindly leave us alone?”_

_Hannibal clicks away with his hideous, fucking fantastic shoes. Newt coughs, chest burning. Hermann holds Newt’s inhaler in front of his face. “Newton. Newton, I need you to breathe with me. In through your mouth, out through your nose.”_

_Newton does as he’s told and on his inhale, Hermann sends the medication flying into his lungs. The effect is nearly instantaneous. “Good. Again, Newton.” Of fucking course Hermann read the usage instructions. Why did Newt imagine he wouldn’t?_

* * *

15 January 2025

**Hermann Gottlieb:** AQI is 79 today. You should wear a mask whenever you’re outside.

**Hermann Gottlieb:** Tendo has stressed to me that you should rest as much as you are able to today. To quote: “Newton’s health is more important than rehearsal. We know he knows his music, but he needs to take time to recover. Please tell him he doesn’t need to come tomorrow.”

**N00t:** herms

**N00t:** how the fuck did you manage to make tendo sound like you

[N00t has set Hermann Gottlieb’s name to Mother Hermann.]

**Mother Hermann:** Very funny, Newton. I’ll try to care about your wellbeing a little less in the future. Maybe drop your inhaler down the trash chute.

[Mother Hermann has set his name to Hermann Gottlieb.]

 

**N00t:** aw

**N00t:** you know i love it herms

**N00t:** you can keep moming me

**N00t:** i won’t tell anyone

**Hermann Gottlieb:** After your stunt, I don’t think there’s anything left to tell.

 

* * *

**16 January 2025  
** Shao Android Orchestra Concert

 

Hindsight is 20/20, and god damn, Newt wishes he’d known Hermann was a total mother hen.

He’d have done it way sooner.

There was no rehearsal yesterday. Newt spent most of the day in bed and Hermann, wonderful man that he is, brought Newt lunch and has kept him well supplied with hot tea. Hermann has been sending him air quality updates, as though Newt doesn't have an app on his home screen for AQI. Newt had invited him along for a manicure, which had earned him a lecture about wearing a mask at all times when outdoors and not overdoing it. Hermann didn’t go with him, which was a bummer, since Newt has had his eye on the _perfect_ polish for him.

It's easy to pretend that Hermann loves him with all this extra attention. He can imagine Hermann stroking his hair every night, or how nice it would be to have Hermann take care of him with a cold. And oh my _god_ , what if Hermann knew about his anxiety?! Imaginary Hermann would probably know exactly what to do. Real Hermann?

Real Hermann just feels bad about the concert, Newt's pretty sure. He'd do the same for anyone else in the ensemble.

Newt sighs. Real Hermann is being a nice, concerned roommate who watched the idiot who just played a trumpet concerto have an killer anxiety-induced asthma attack at some rich mafioso’s mansion. Real Hermann thinks he’s full of himself and riding on the high of his own ego at all times. Real Hermann will go back to being a real dick once he realizes Newt is just a mess whose anxiety (and asthma) got the better of him that night, and real Newt will go back to scrolling through those thousands of messages to try to recapture the Hermann he imagined.

There’s a banging on the door. “Newton, are you nearly done? I need to shower this morning, too, and I would appreciate some hot water to take one.”

Newt scrubs his face and turns the spray off. “Sorry, Herms! The steam is good for my poor, busted lungs and I’m just following you and Tendo’s directions. Besides, it’s a hotel! No one’s running out of hot water any time soon, dude.”

He steps out of the shower and grabs his towel. He’s gotten into the habit of bringing a fresh pair of briefs in with him as to not earn an earful from Hermann about “common decency,” as if anyone in the 21st century gives a hot fuck about nudity. He pushes the door open with the towel draped around his shoulders, finding the bedroom to be pleasantly warm. Hermann is waiting in his matched pajama set.

“All yours, dude.”

“Newton?” Hermann asks. “How are you feeling this morning? Any change from yesterday? Will you be able to handle --”

“Yes, Hermann, yes I’m fine and _yes_ I can handle rehearsal.” Newt says, cruising past him.

Hermann is silent.

“But, uh, thanks for caring, dude. Not many people do that, y’know? It’s nice.” Newt buries his face in the closet to hide the brilliant blush on his face.

“You’re welcome, Newton.” And the bathroom door closes with a click.

Yeah, Newt’s got it bad.

The water starts to run in the bathroom and Newt re-emerges from the closet with a wrinkled and dirty white button-down and a skinny black tie. He maybe wore this a few days ago? Whatever, capsule wardrobes are still en vogue.

Newt replays the concerto rehearsal process in his head for the zillionth time: his conversation with Pentecost about interpretation, the first rehearsal of the third movement, standing in the bathroom and making faces to himself while practicing, the final rehearsal, getting dressed with Hermann, the Maslanka, and finally performing. His breath catches as he thinks through the performance and he’s keenly aware of the hike in heart rate as he can _see_ Liwen’s disapproval and Hannibal looking like he’s going to devour Newt whole, both conversing behind Liwen’s lace fan as though Newt can’t see them through the stage lights. Then: running outside to try to forget, Hannibal in hot pursuit, Hannibal explaining Liwen’s planned monopoly of the orchestral world and how it begins with a choke order on this wind ensemble that Newt can’t -- _won’t_ \-- believe. Hannibal suggesting that _Hermann_ might be complicit in Liwen’s actions.

The golden thread running through all these terrors, the one that makes them whole, is Hermann. Hermann chasing him down, thinking the conversation with Pentecost was a reprimand. Hermann sharing his thoughts on the concerto. Hermann, always Hermann, racing to his side and knowing exactly what Newt needed. Sleeping on Hermann’s shoulder on the ride back to the hotel.

Newt ties his tie. He grabs his anxiety medication bottle and tosses his pills back dry, and for his efforts is rewarded with a small cough. The placebo of taking the meds is enough to begin to lower his hammering heart rate.

The water stops. From inside the bathroom: “Are you alright, Newton? I can hear you coughing.”

“Hermann! Just keep showering! I’m fine!”

But he won’t be if Hermann keeps this caregiver act up, that’s for damn sure.

* * *

 

Rehearsal schedule for 16 January 2025

 

09:00 - Bach

10:30 - Mackey

11:30 - Lunch

13:00 - Gottlieb

 

Itinerary for Shao Industries Android Orchestra Concert

18:00 - Board buses

18:45 - Arrive at Shao Industries

19:30 - Concert

22:30 - Board buses for return to hotel

23:15 - End of evening

 

* * *

 

Rehearsal passes without note. Many people stop to say hello to Newt, which he finds strange but wonderful; it’s an odd sensation to be recognized in a _positive_ way, and a way in which causes people to express genuine concern. Hermann keeps sneaking glances back at him, as though Newt might pass out at any moment, and thinks that these small looks have gone unnoticed. He couldn’t be more wrong if he tried, Newt thinks, and _wow_ is it like having the Hermann he has in messenger with him today. He winks back once and Hermann rolls his eyes and shakes his head in response.

The rehearsal is a balm to his nerves -- there’s never been a time that playing hasn’t made him feel better. Pouring his anxiety into the net-positive that is making music is everything he needs. In his music, he’s untouchable by Hannibal, by the idea of Hermann hating him, by his own fears.

Newt has the afternoon off since he’ll be sitting Hermann’s piece out, and opts to go out for dim sum. It’s raining heavily today and he steals Hermann’s gigantic, hideous parka to guard against the cold and damp. Since its owner will be conducting a piece for the next two hours, he’s fine to not send a message informing Hermann of the adventure the jacket will be going on.

The dim sum is nice -- hot, steaming buns and scallion pancakes are enough to make anyone feel like the world isn’t ending with robots playing trumpets.

But wait, how’s that gonna work?

Something to ask Hermann about. Why didn’t he ask Liwen? He doesn’t dare think about Hannibal’s insinuation that Hermann, Doctor I Fucking Hate Androids Gottlieb himself, had something to do with it.

He’s immersed in Hermann’s scent -- it’s fresh, with notes of juniper and ginger among citrus. Hannibal’s words haunt him even as the smell comforts him and his anxiety mounts with every step. How can he ask Hermann? How _will_ he ask?

Newt makes his way back to the hotel, ducking under overhangs as much as he can. Even with the fur-lined hood up, he still manages to get his hair wet. Oh well, who’s gonna be looking at him tonight?

He whistles as he rides up to their floor. He steps off the elevator and --

“Newton, what on earth are you doing in my parka?” Hermann is stepping off another elevator and looks thoroughly displeased. So, he looks normal! The parka heist has been a success!

“Oh, hey Hermann! You know, it was raining outside, and I didn’t pack anything really warm and went into the city to buy one, but yours was right there before I left!” Newt laughs. Hermann’s expression is unchanged. “Besides, the cold hurts, and I would have texted but didn’t want to bother you in rehearsal?”

Hermann rolls his eyes and pinches the bridge of his nose. “Careless of you not to pack warm clothing, Newton. I’ll thank you not to borrow my things without permission again in the future.”

Newt nods in the affirmative and Hermann seems satisfied. “Have you thought about the actual science behind the androids? Like, obviously I recorded for them, but if they need recordings, are they actually going to be playing?”

“I would have thought you would ask when you were recording, but apparently, that’s far too advanced a question for you,” Hermann unlocks their door. “The androids aren’t using the recordings that were made for them to perform with, but rather are learning _how_ to play from those recordings. Any programmer can punch notes in, but the androids are learning from specific humans playing in specific styles how to best achieve those on their own.”

“So I’ll never be in the performance?” Newt shucks the jacket and tosses it onto Hermann’s bed. That’d suck in some pretty major ways.

“Absolutely not! The sound the AI learned from you will be there; I suppose spiritually you _are_ there. It depends on your interpretation and what you consider to be your own.” Hermann toes his shoes off. “Your recordings were used as the reference for the entire trumpet section, but there was one piece you played that we chose specifically for the android to be used for my piece. That android and its AI learned differently from the others. I suppose we’ll see exactly how at this evening’s concert, hm?”

“‘We,’ Hermann? I thought you hated this whole thing?”

“Yes, ‘we,’ Newton,” Hermann begins looking through the closet for some doubtlessly grandfatherly attire for the evening. “A hobby of mine has always been robots and the study of artificial intelligences. I earned a master’s degree in computer science, and so, when Ms. Shao began the commission process for our ensemble, she requested me specifically based on my background. It isn’t something that I’m necessarily proud of now, considering the event we’ll be attending tonight.”

“Hannibal said you were involved but I thought he was full of shit,” Newt says, anxiety coalescing into something much more potent. Panic climbs Newt’s throat. Hannibal was right? “Why, Hermann?”

“Why, what?”

“I thought you hated this whole android thing? That you liked this ensemble?”

“Wha -- Newton, why wouldn’t I like this ensemble? I thought _you_ liked it! To accuse me of anything else seems ludicrous --”

“Hannibal told me about Liwen’s plans to take everything over and make us all out to be idiots and did you know about it from the start? Did you, Hermann?”

“Newton, no, of course not, calm down. Why did I do it, you ask? I did it because she _paid_ me. Handsomely! Far better than what one can normally make from a commissioned work by a major ensemble! Did I write for the love of music? It goes without saying that I did. It wasn’t until long after the skeleton of the piece existed that she requested that the _trumpet_ be the android addition to the ensemble.”

Newt sits down heavily.

“Are you alright, Newton?” Hermann is already moving toward him with the inhaler. He keeps it on his person at all times?

“I’m fine, I’m fine! I just -- Hannibal wouldn’t make this shit up! And I’m the one who likes the androids! Just...what the fuck, dude?” Newt says, trying wildly to choke the panic down. “Why didn’t you tell me I’m going to be a dad?”

Hermann looks lost. He can join the club; Newt’s caterwauling to mask the anxiety with terrible jokes. “Hermann, you’ve been leading me on for weeks now, thinking I’d get to play in the orchestra! And here, come to find out that you’ve known all along.” Hermann’s frowning now. “I mean, sure I could have _asked,_ but it sounded like Liwen was going to put all these recorded sounds in some giant organ! And my sound lives on through my artificial babies.”

Newt laughs nervously as Hermann jerks his arm away. “But you didn’t say you didn’t know that Liwen was gonna tank the whole project.”

Hermann’s face darkens. “That’s nonsense and you know it.”

“Oh yeah?”

“Newton, why would I climb aboard a sinking ship? Why would I care to play with an ensemble destined for failure? Why would I spend so much time arguing with you if I knew everything was bound for ruin?”

“And why would you care about the androids so much if you didn’t think they were a real, credible threat, Dr. Gottlieb? You said yourself that you’ve already been paid, and that Liwen holds you in high esteem. What were you going to do, play the premiere then bow out?”

Hermann takes a deep, steadying breath, huffing out through his nose. “I don’t know who filled your head with this garbage, but it is patently untrue and frankly insulting. I’m not going anywhere, and I won’t be paid in full until _after_ the premiere. I leased my home for the next ten months to gallivant across the globe; why would I turn back after a few short weeks and evict the young family staying there? And, most importantly,” He crosses his arms, “I am _revolted_ by the idea of including one of Ms. Shao’s androids in my piece. You know this. You have _known_ this.”

“So? Give me the sheet music.” Newt’s voice takes on a manic edge. “Just print it off your computer.”

“I...I can’t do that, Newton.” Hermann’s face darkens. “Or did _you_ make some kind of deal with Chau while I was indoors? Hm? Did he bribe you to play the part?”

Newt grinds his teeth. “What?! Of course not! Like I’d ever do anything for him!”

“Except defend this absurd notion that I was paid to write a piece of music then abandon an ensemble! _My_ ensemble! The one I wrote the piece for!” Hermann exclaims. He’s all but shouting and towers over Newt.

Newt jumps to his feet. “Fuck it! Fine, Hermann! I’m outta here. Keep your stupid fucking parka, too.”

He slams the door behind him.

Why does he need to push everyone he cares about away?

Oh, that’s right -- so they never have the chance to hurt him first.

But why does it hurt so much to leave Hermann?

* * *

 

“Evening, brother. Mind if I sit with you?” Newt glances up. Tendo smiles gently down at him. He grunts and nods and Tendo takes the seat.

They arrived at the Shao Industries lab about twenty minutes ago; the concert is hosted in a small, private theater that seats about one hundred. Newt made a beeline for the back corner and glares daggers at everyone who tries to sit near him. Tendo is an acceptable person to have sit for the concert.

Newt’s been looking forward to this concert for _weeks,_ but his anxiety is overshadowing his enthusiasm, and if he’s honest, he feels like shit for being so mean to Hermann. But Hermann might still know what’s going on, his anxiety reminds him. It’s hard to be excited when you’re busy feeling guilty.

The ensemble is already on the recital stage, staring blankly and silently at their chattering audience. Newt has no idea what to expect any more -- how will the AI have learned his sound and how to produce it?

“So, they’re using your sound?” Tendo sends out a test balloon. When Newt doesn’t reply, he continues, “How’s that supposed to work?”

“I’m sure you already talked to Hermann so can it, Tendo.” Newt says, crossing his arms. “I mean, these are all my beautiful trumpet children that Hermann hates, so why even bother asking me?”

Tendo leans back and laces his fingers behind his head. “Well, Newt, let me tell you: Hermann told me you were mighty unhappy this evening. He’s worried about you. He wouldn’t give me specifics out of respect for you, but he did mention that it involved him and Hannibal Chau. Anything ringing any bells?”

“The androids learned my sound from the recording sessions I did with Liwen and I was upset because Hannibal told me that Hermann knows about the ensemble going to shit in a handbasket and he isn’t going to do anything about it and we had a big fight,” Newt rambles, “And I maybe fucked up? I mean, Hermann didn’t seem to know that Liwen --”

“Newt?”

“Yeah?”

“Forgive me if it seems harsh, brother, but you can be a real ding-dong.” Tendo claps a hand on his shoulder. “You really think Hermann would do something like that? You’ve been talking to the same Hermann I have, right?”

“The one who talks about the breath of the divine in music?”

“The one who talks about the breath of the divine in music. Trust me on this one -- he’s not going to give that up easily, and most definitely not for any price. Whatever Chau said to you, put it out of your head.” Tendo makes fists, then flares his fingers. “Chau’s game is to intimidate whoever he can. He tried to get to me, and the only way to deflect him is to ignore him completely. Let it go, brother.”

Tendo’s message is a lighthouse on the sea of anxiety. Newt uncrosses his arms and sighs.

“How did the androids learn your sound?” Tendo asks. Liwen strides onto the stage in a long, well-cut black gown with long, skin-tight sleeves and a Mandarin collar. She carries a baton with her, white fiberglass catching the lights against the matte black backdrop of her gown.

“They have an AI. But to play? Fuck if I know, Tendo.” Newt replies. The lights dim in the house and grow brighter on stage.

“Welcome to the Shao Android Orchestra’s first private concert,” Liwen says, holding her arms out to the audience. Less than half the androids, as one, flicker to life and hold their instruments in a ready position. Guess the first piece is something more traditional, Newt wonders. “It is our honor and pleasure to welcome many of the musicians who recorded for us, and enabled this orchestra to exist. Our program this evening will open with Beethoven’s Fifth symphony, followed by Bryant’s Ecstatic Waters in tribute and homage to the Pan Pacific Wind Ensemble. Please enjoy.”

Every time a piece is played, it is encountered for the first time, no matter if the person hearing it has heard it one time or a thousand. Every performance is music born anew, sparkling and shimmering, as its audience has transformed since they last heard the piece. Newt’s played Beethoven’s Fifth more times than he can count. The piece begins in minor and ends in major, symbolizing the composer’s triumph over his failing hearing and depression; Newt’s identified with it in new ways every time he’s played it and every time he’s sat in an audience for a performance of it. It’s a moment of personal history captured in black notes on white paper, one that finds resonance well beyond the life of the man who penned it. The Fifth is, of course, antiquated now, with giant orchestras having become the standard since the early 19th century, but it holds its own as a groundbreaking piece of music and a testament to human emotion and the power to express that emotion.

Yet, as Liwen gives a downbeat and the central four-note motif is played for the first time, Newt hears the lack of _newness,_ replaced by a horrible chasm of lifelessness. That motif, played everywhere for every occasion ever, written to be the motif of fate knocking at Beethoven’s door, has been rendered stale and lifeless. The oboe cadenza is flavorless and depressing. The coda, the coda filled with manic energy and new themes, couldn’t be less exciting.

Every movement is worse than the last, culminating in the fourth movement and the true modulation into C major. Newt knows the movement to be sweeping and joyous but it’s just...loud. And bad. Trumpets weren’t used yet to carry melodies, but from what he can hear, this is not a _good_ learning of how to produce meaningful sound on any instrument.

The piece ends. Liwen steps off the podium and bows her head. There’s lukewarm applause from the audience, and as Newt looks around, he sees expressions of discontent among his ensemblemates. Tendo looks uncomfortable at best. The remainder of the orchestra’s eyes flicker to life

Liwen smiles and ascends the podium once more. Of course there’s no need for any tuning or time to make adjustments, these are androids, and even if their instruments went out of tune, they would make the perfect adjustment in the shortest time possible. Liwen gives a tiny downbeat.

The opening percussion, meant to be glittering and gentle, come across as tinny and harsh. The easy delight of the celesta and vibraphone, the hum of joy from the melodic percussion, has become a pathetic farce of human emotion.

Then. Then the muted trumpets. The sound Newt’s been waiting for for _months!_ Now no longer buried in the orchestral wash! He tries to kickstart his brain from anxiety to excitement, but as the ‘droids hold their trumpets aloft, he can feel the balloon of his certainty in this project deflating rapidly.

These androids learned from Newt. They listened, probably way closer than any jury committee Newt’s ever played for, listened and learned and are making a cruel mockery of his sound. Their pitch is perfect, intonation so clear you could fly a plane through it, but it’s _dead._ The joy written into this piece, especially into this movement, is gone. Newt knows that the electronics will enter far later in the piece and knows they’ll have more life to them than this absolute fucking sham. He could run his trumpet over and it would have more life than this orchestra.

And finally, the entire ensemble is playing, taking the Ceremony of Innocence and rendering it from its three-dimensional celebration to two flat, miserable dimensions. Liwen’s sharp movements cannot make up for the void of the ensemble sound. Newt knows, knows beyond all doubt, that he is hearing Ecstatic Waters for the first time this evening and never wants to hear it again. No revisting, no listening to recordings, fuck, he doesn’t even want to think about the preview concert if it means thinking about this piece. He’s transformed, abso-fucking-lutely transformed as he feels his blood boil.

The second movement begins with muted trumpets and is meant to convey a sense of deep foreboding. The music inspires no emotion but rage in Newt. The orchestra hasn’t found what lies between the notes, oh no, they play only the notes with mechanical (ha) precision, with no _musicality._ Sure, they imitate what their original musician was trying to convey, but it isn’t sincere, rather a gross estimation of emotion. The memory and change never happened from one performance -- the preview -- to this one because Newt isn’t the one who’s playing this time around, even though it’s an approximation of his sound.

Maybe Hermann was right all along about the androids.

Maybe Hermann _isn’t_ playing into Liwen’s hands.

Maybe Hannibal is on their side?

One thing’s for sure: Newt’s a giant asshole and needs to do _something_ to make it up to Hermann.

* * *

  
“If I was Hermann Gottlieb, doctor of musical arts and massive asshole, where would I keep my extra sheet music?” Newt whispers to himself. His phone is sitting in his breast pocket, shining light around their living room. He’s searching through Hermann’s bags for the extra set of parts to The Handwriting of God he _knows_ Hermann keeps.

Aha! The score! Newt grabs it out of Hermann’s backpack and tiptoes to the bathroom with it. Hermann is deeply asleep, but he’s not going to risk being caught red-handed. He closes the door as quietly as he can, flicks the lights on, and --

A first trumpet part is tucked in the front flap. Newt takes it out reverently. Hermann’s handwriting is in a few places for changes. Newt grabs his phone and snaps pictures of every page of the part, then carefully replaces it in the score, and returns the score to Hermann’s bag. Hermann would know something was wrong if the music was gone, and besides, he can just shoot it to the printer provided to Hermann for his composition.

The printer whirs to life and prints off the illegal copies. Newt carries them back to the bathroom to check that everything is legible and boom, baby, he’s in business. He grabs the correctly-pitched trumpet and a practice mute and sits on the lid of the toilet, studying the music. He can hear it in his head, and sees for the first time the care and devotion Hermann gave to his creation. He grabs the stand he keeps in the bathroom specifically for practice and arrays the sheet music on it.

Newt’s sat in some of the rehearsals for the piece, but _seeing_ it is an entirely new experience. He, again, feels the tide of transformation and power rush in as the fury from the android concert begins to ebb. _He_ has the power now, and plans to use it. He begins to play.

He’ll show Liwen what a huge mistake she made. He’ll show Hermann what a huge mistake _he_ made by working with Liwen. He’ll show everyone that this is the only way to play an instrument, and that only humans can bring with them everything needed to make _music._

Now: how’s he gonna solve the problem of the android?

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> You can still say hi to me on [my tumblr](http://generalglockenspiel.tumblr.com/), since I'll have to be dragged away. Everyone's been posting musician ideas for our boys recently, and believe me, I spent the whole month trying to get back to them! 
> 
> Hermann's scent is [Gin by Commodity](https://www.sephora.com/product/gin-P395010) and is very refreshing and bright!
> 
> Have a wonderful holiday, y'all!


	6. 19 January - Hermann

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Rehearsed in this chapter:
> 
> The Handwriting of God - Hermann Gottlieb   
> I. First Law of Thermodynamics  
> II. Inertia  
> III. Sparks  
> IV. That which lies beyond science
> 
> [Fantasia and Fugue in C minor - J.S. Bach (arr. Elgar, trans. Nowlin)](https://youtu.be/id6Yoh2gLd8)
> 
> [First Suite in E-flat for Military Band - Gustav Holst](https://youtu.be/fLbP6qpI1YI)  
> I. Chaconne  
> II. Intermezzo  
> III. March
> 
> Wine-Dark Sea: Symphony for Band - John Mackey  
> [I. Hubris](https://youtu.be/MrkQqFRKUJg)  
> II. Immortal thread, so weak  
> III. The attentions of souls
> 
> Also in this chapter:
> 
> [Everytime We Touch - Cascada](https://youtu.be/JK3t63HM4vA)
> 
> [Quiet City - Aaron Copland](https://youtu.be/s_MxTZlYL14)

* * *

 

**19 January 2025**

Newton hasn’t spoken to Hermann in days.

Hermann is determined not to take it personally, since Newton is a buffoon at best, but he can’t help but feel a little stung.

He can only assume that he offended Newton in some way, or came on too strong. It’s not that Newton _isn’t_ a fool, it’s that Hermann can recognize his own errors as well. It won’t be the first time that someone spurned his advances, and he’s learned to compartmentalize the pain. There’s a premiere to give, not only of his five-movement piece, but for a burgeoning international ensemble. The first rehearsal with the android today is today, and the engineering team will be in the hall to set up at 08:00. There isn’t time for wallowing in self-pity. There isn’t time for Newton’s attention-seeking shenanigans.

He still carries the inhaler, though.

* * *

“Dr. Gottlieb, a pleasure to see you again.” Liwen Shao does not offer her hand to shake as she enters the hall and strides downstage to where Hermann is reviewing his score. “My engineers will be setting up before your rehearsal and testing acoustics with the ensemble. What pitch does the ensemble tune to?”

“442, though with the cold weather system, we’ve been pushing down to 441.” Hermann responds cooly. Ms. Shao gives the smallest huff of dissatisfaction.

“We built our tuning system to 444, but we will make the adjustments.” She taps something on her phone. “I will be observing from the box. Don’t hesitate to inform the engineering team if something is not to your satisfaction. I trust you remember Dr. Lim?”

Dr. Lim looks expectantly toward Ms. Shao. Hermann remembers meeting her briefly during the first programming run of his piece; she scribbled notes as Ms. Shao made criticisms to the other engineers and to Hermann. He waves, and she ducks her head back down to her work, not offering a gesture of greeting of her own.

“Dr. Lim will be on hand to see that our needs are carried out. Dr. Presser will be making any changes you need to the piece. Dr. Annad will be with me in the box.” Ms. Shao turns and walks back toward her engineers without another word.

The android has been transported from Shao Industries and sits, lifeless, where Newton typically does. It has no discerning humanoid features. It has a hard, white, glossy exterior with exposed black cabling throughout, and Hermann knows that when it is on, its “eyes” will glow blue. The unnervingly human lower face given to it to produce sound is tucked below the line of where a nose would be on a human. Two engineers, including Dr. Lim, move in dancelike patterns around the machine, speaking in hushed tones. The third sits behind the machine, typing away at a laptop.

“Dr. Gottlieb, a moment?” This engineer asks.

“Yes, Doctor…?” Hermann asks, taking his cane and walking toward them.

“Dr. Alice Presser. It’s great to finally be able to meet you!” Dr. Presser enthusiastically shakes his hand, beaming. “I’ve enjoyed getting to know you through your music, but wow, it’s an honor to get to work with you in person! In the third movement, do you want this forte, or fortissimo? Someone made a note earlier that you were still deciding.” She points to her screen.

Hermann releases her hand and puts his glasses on. He smiles, feeling his cheeks warm with the praise. “I’m glad to meet you as well, Dr. Presser. That should be only forte; this movement shouldn’t have fortissimo.”

She nods and taps the keyboard. “Please, call me Alice. All set. I’ll be doing one final check to make sure everything is ready for rehearsal, and I’ll be on stage with you during your piece. Dr. Annad and I will clear this guy to the back before you start work on the next piece. Do you have any questions for me before we get started?”

“No, none come to mind.” Hermann says. Dr. Presser beams and takes her phone out of her pocket.

“Okay, I have one for you -- selfie? Is that cool?” She unlocks the screen and opens the camera.

“Of course, of course, Dr. Presser.” Hermann leans into the frame. Dr. Presser throws up a peace sign and click, click, clicks through three pictures.

“Thank you so much! D’you know if Dr. Geiszler is gonna be here at all? Does he come for your piece? I’d love to meet him, too, since I feel like I’ve gotten to know him through listening to _hundreds_ of hours of him playing.” She’s looking at her computer screen as she says all of this, and only turns to Hermann at the very end. “If the way he plays is anything to judge him by, he seems like a really neat guy. Have you met?”

“Yes, we’ve met. But, unfortunately, I don’t know him well.” Hermann says. “He occasionally stops in for this part of rehearsal. Perhaps you’ll get lucky.”

“Oh, awesome! Thanks again, Dr. Gottlieb.”

Had he ever known Newton?

Or had he just imagined he did?

“You’re most welcome, Dr. Presser.”

* * *

 

Rehearsal Schedule for 19 January 2025

 

09:00 - Gottlieb

10:00 - Bach

11:30 - Lunch

13:00 - Holst

14:30 - Mackey

 

* * *

Something old, something new, something borrowed, something blue.

Pentecost has programmed this concert to fit into these categories -- by happenstance? -- and it’s suiting, as Hermann feels like this is his marriage to the ensemble. The Holst is the old: the bedrock upon which all other wind band music is built, the constant point of reference, the only way to begin a new concert series with a new ensemble. He, Dr. Hermann Gottlieb, is the new, a piece composed fresh for this very premiere. Bach is borrowed from organ repertoire, and had the man been alive when Holst had been, there is no doubt he would have composed for wind band. And Wine-Dark Sea, the Mackey, Hermann feels, is something blue: blue for its jazzy chords, blue for its heart-wrenching second movement, blue for Odysseus’s helplessness. He tries, unsuccessfully, not to think of the blue glow of the android. If he is to be wed, it may as well be with good omens.

Slowly, the seats are filling, and the quiet excitement of an ensemble warming up is beginning to grow louder. The android is still lifeless amid the currents of enthusiasm; Dr. Presser sits just behind it, keeping to herself. Hermann is surprised by her reclusiveness: the woman had seemed so animated and social when they had met, and he had expected the same cheer for the rest of the ensemble members. She checks her watch, and looks expectantly at Hermann. As she’s looking at him, her eyes light up, and she rushes off the stage.

“Oh my god, oh my god! You’re Dr. Geiszler!” Dr. Presser exclaims from behind him. So Newton _has_ come to this rehearsal, probably to gloat and send rude messages.

“Call me Newt. Who are you?” Newton asks. Hermann swivels his chair around to look at them. Newton looks a little taken aback, and Dr. Presser leans in close to him, glowing with obvious delight to meet the man.

“I’m Alice, Dr. Alice Presser. I’m one of the lead programmers on the android using your recordings! I’ve listened to at _least_ seven hundred hours of you playing, and not just the recordings you made for us. I did my best to find everything as far back as your college days. You have a lot of material out there!” Dr. Presser rambles. “I even read about your, um, last ensemble posting.”

“Oh yeah? What about it?” Newton asks, on the defensive. Dr. Presser smiles widely.

“Nothing bad, I promise! Just how you blew them all away and how they couldn’t handle you.” She says. Newton visibly relaxes. “Wanna come see your sound in action? You can sit with me for Dr. Gottlieb’s piece.”

Newton looks up and makes eye contact with Hermann. “You know, I think it would make this piece interesting. Thanks, Alice!”

He follows her onto the stage, and she busies herself in describing the android to him. How curious -- Newton had seemed so angry about the android just days before, and now seems enchanted by them. Perhaps not by the machine, but by the puppeteer.

Hermann finds himself adrift, again, in the wash of ensemble sounds, growing louder by the minute. Nearly every seat is filled now and he catches fragments of his piece being played.

“Ensemble, good morning.” Pentecost steps onto the stage and all sound immediately stops. Newton and Dr. Presser lean in close for a selfie, making ridiculous faces. “We are joined this morning by our founding sponsor, Ms. Liwen Shao.”

Flanked by Dr. Lim and Dr. Annad, Ms. Shao stands next to the podium. “Good morning. I have met many of you before, and it was an honor to have you at the debut of our android orchestra. The future of live music would be uncertain without your dedication to the art, and on behalf of Shao Industries, I thank you. Throughout time, humans have always been innovators, and it is only fitting that we innovate your sound with androids. I would also like to thank Dr. Gottlieb for his work with us, and for his groundbreaking work on The Handwriting of God. A fitting title for a piece about life and human drive to create and overcome challenges.”

Hermann smiles politely. For all her research, Ms. Shao has missed the central idea of the final movement: the eventual war between man and machine, and how it is playing out in a miniscule scale with this debut. The ensemble applauds and she bows her head, moving off stage. The only challenge to be overcome is the challenge of a soulless robot playing a piece about the sparks of life in humans.

“An A, if you please.” Pentecost says. The principal clarinetist plays accordingly, and the woodwinds begin to tune; once they are done, she plays a B-flat, and the brass tune.

Dr. Presser peels herself away from Newton and turns her focus to the laptop. The android’s blue eyes turn on, and it raises its trumpet to its “face” and plays the tuning note. It is perfectly in tune -- and perfectly lifeless. Hermann frowns.

“Before we begin, I too would like to offer my thanks,” Hermann says. “Without you, this music would merely be black ink on white paper. Your experiences, your lives as musicians, have enabled this piece to come to life. _You_ are the sparks of life. _You_ sing the demand for greatness, and _you_ are the ones who answer the call for more from this life. It is the honor of my lifetime to make music with you, and to have written this piece for you to play.”

This time, the ensemble applauds wildly, cheering loudly for him. Hermann nods. “We’ll be running the entire piece this morning.”

And with his downbeat, they dive in.

If the maestro programmed for old, new, borrowed, and blue, Hermann subconsciously wrote these elements into his own piece. Motifs developing into themes from Beethoven. Jazzy, blue chords; the stirring, restless depths of the ocean from which life emerged. Chords borrowed from pieces of composers long dead; a motif all his own in a four-movement symphonic work from his own two hands.

The downward sweep of the clarinets, the wild sixteenths from the saxophones, and the splash of the brass as they devour the saxophones fills Hermann to his limit with joy. This, all this emotion, and he has the singular _privilege_ of being its conduit. Until --

The trumpet.

The principal trumpet presses the motif to its extreme above the foundation of tubas and untameable woodwind flourishes. It is exquisitely in tune, following Hermann’s every gesture, and yet, it is utterly devoid of the unbridled _feeling_ the ensemble is pouring into their music. It is like a black hole, punched in the middle of the ensemble, sucking the joy out of Hermann and the ensemble at large.

 _Do not think about it,_ Hermann chides himself, _There is no time. There is only the premiere, there is only Ms. Shao, and there is only this ensemble. None would exist without the others. The android must be here._

The French horns call out the motif and the trombones respond in kind. Low in the woodwinds, another theme stirs uneasily. Hermann refocuses and tries to summon a tide of emotion but…

Nothing.

There is only the principal trumpet and its smug programmer, both without the experience of this ensemble, but stealing it as though it were their own.

Hermann is not the conduit for emotion, rather he is the only safe harbor in an empty sea. The ensemble hear it, too -- their sound changes ever so slightly, trepidation creeping in where there had been enthusiasm. Body language changes and more than one pair of eyes flit to Hermann as if to ask what can be done to change this, how the void could _possibly_ be filled.

He has nothing to offer, other than to forge ahead.

* * *

Newton sat with Dr. Presser for lunch. Hermann had done his best to ignore the two (which, admittedly, was a very poor “best”) as they chatted amicably for the better part of an hour. They exchanged phone numbers, or messenger names, or _whatever_ people exchange these days with a romantic interest. Per usual, Hermann sat with Tendo. They avoided discussion of the androids as a whole, focusing instead on the singular android in their midst -- the android designed to replace Newton. Tendo shares Hermann’s less-than-favorable opinion of the machine, though Hermann feels that this choice of trumpet player is somehow _personal_ because of Newton.

Dr. Presser mentioned something about Newton’s previous position. Hermann has no doubt that Liwen knows, and that it’s part of what has left Newton so skeptical of him. But what, exactly, happened?

 _I’m not jealous,_ he insists to himself. _Newton is allowed to have other friends, and certainly we aren’t friends after he learned of my involvement with Shao._

But all of that is irrelevant as break time becomes rehearsal once again.

To play the Holst is to receive a baptismal covenant anew. He isn’t a religious man, but this piece is near what a religious experience must be.

Hermann remembers his first time playing it in a high school honor band, squeaking his way through the higher register the piece demands. Every time he has played it since has been a renewal of self and devotion to music. The chaconne, the fourteen-note melody the first movement revolves around, is imprinted in his muscle memory and makes his heart sing to play.

And, as it always will, the trumpet entrance comes. In this piece, it enters as a countermelody over the chaconne.

This time, it is not a void, as it is in Hermann’s piece. Newton plays a legitimate cornet, melodious and full of passion. It is so good, so _bracing_ to hear his human sound once again. Hermann spent all of the Bach winding down from the anger at the android and buried himself in his own music, never once taking a moment to appreciate what was happening around him. The chaconne continues to flourish as the woodwinds are folded in, and finally, the piece swells to ensemble hits from the brass and sweeping scales in the upper woodwinds. It is elegant, timeless writing; it is a testament to the majesty of the medium, and there are still so many more repetitions and variations to go as the ensemble hits give way to the cornets and trumpets carrying the chaconne forward.

It is more than just the trumpet (or cornet, Hermann supposes), and it is more than the sum of their sound together. It is the experience behind every single one of these people, individual streams running into one, through Pentecost, and made a whole greater than themselves. It’s the high school honor band, it’s his first concert in college, it’s the premiere they’ll give tomorrow night. It is the weight of over 100 years of performances of this piece by all ages of people, generations of musicians playing these harmonies and their audiences being swept away every time.

Pentecost releases the ensemble from the final, inverted E-flat chord, and they move on to the second movement. The cornet -- Newton -- and the principal clarinet dance through the melody of the Intermezzo, filled with delight and humor. Hermann joins and gives the bedrock of moving eighth notes that the secondary dominant chords rest upon; he is part of the motor churning this movement forward.

Here, in the middle of the piece, it is impossible to think of his frustration with Newton; nothing matters but the upward scale of sixteenth notes before the melody returns in the clarinet and cornet. There is no android, Newton’s anger is hidden beneath his jovial playing, and Hermann can focus on what matters: making music.

The March begins with the clarinet trill bass drum hit, and the trumpets take off with the first melody of the movement. The brass are all pomp and fanfare; the woodwind trio is a smooth, melodious contrast. The woodwinds gain momentum and depth, and as they wind down again, the cornets are back with the brass -- this movement ends in a spectacular finish with both melodies being played simultaneously, swapping so the brass plays the melody the winds introduced, and the winds play the original brass melody.

It’s the first time in this piece that the bassoon and trumpet will be playing together as the piece draws to its climactic moment; they play in counterpoint with the cornet soaring with the high winds, and Hermann singing with the brass choir. It is a moment of perfect homophony after exquisite polyphony. The winds break off, the trombones give a final fanfare, and the ensemble flies together toward a final, unison E-flat hit.

The memories slot into place: the honor band, the collegiate ensembles, the first time he conducted the piece, papers written, lectures given on its importance, performing it for the first time professionally. These younger Hermanns all rest inside that chord, closing like nesting dolls and launching Hermann back into reality. He shuffles his music over to the Mackey.

“On to the Mackey, please.” Pentecost says. “We’ll be working on the first movement.”

A downbeat, and the French horns herald Odysseus’s ship sailing home from the Trojan War.

In this movement, Odysseus rides home on his ship with the spoils of war, but those treasures are not enough: he instead must also pillage every town he sets upon with his crew. The jubilant French horn fanfare calls his arrival, all arrogance and pride, percussion beating the march at which the ensemble sails.

But Odysseus cannot return home: his plundering has called the attention of the gods, and he must pay for his transgressions.

Hermann is keenly aware now of Newton, dissonant against the French horns’ proud fanfare. It is filled with self-assurance and swagger; his sound perfectly embodies the overly-proud Odysseus, and the other trumpets are his crew. Soon, he will lead them to ruin, for the joyride cannot last. Hermann blocks the swell of arrogance from entering his space, unwilling to be lost in the current of pride.

Hermann worries that hubris is what lead him to make the agreement with Shao Industries: that, like Odysseus, he only saw the prize, not the problems associated with it. His pride cost him his budding friendship and trust with Newton, and now, there is no way to pick up the fragments and repair the damage. Dr. Presser has stepped in to fill his role, and Newton has taken to her like a duck to water.

Hermann had the idea for The Handwriting of God since completing his doctorate, and with the commission, it was impossible to hold off any longer. No central theme had been specified; he had envisioned the unstoppable march of evolution and war between man, machine, and other life forms, and this had been the perfect opportunity to give them a voice through the most perfect medium. Then, _then_ had Ms. Shao demanded that an android be included in the work. Hermann had followed the news stories of musicians recording for Shao, and having received an invitation himself, was curious. Newton had given an interview shortly after, saying how excited he was to be a pioneer in the android field.

How blissfully unaware they had both been.

The percussion play a distress signal -- Odysseus’s ship has been struck down by Zeus, and the crew is drowning. Three short, three long, three short strikes ring out, and Odysseus emerges once more, lost and alone at sea. His journey home will take as long as the war had raged, and in order to finally return to his home, Odysseus must first lose himself and surrender to the wine-dark sea.

Is _he_ Odysseus? Must he surrender to the android, to Liwen Shao, to survive? Is this the wrath of the universe, come to him as an artificial intelligence, beckoning him across the murky seas to a gleaming future?

Or, has he forsaken humanity, and must he surrender to Newton? Surrender to the tsunami of emotions Newton has awakened in him? Admit his wrongdoing for including the android?

Hermann will surrender himself willingly a hundred times; he will give up his sense of self to the ocean of the ensemble sound if it means having Newton’s trust back. He is a proud man, but he is capable of apology.

He cannot bear the next ten months alone.

* * *

19 January 2025

 **N00t:** yo herms

 **N00t:** is it cool if i have the room to myself until like 9 tonight?

 **N00t:** it’s private

 

 **N00t:** i’ll take your silence as a yes

 

 **N00t:** since you’re so curious

 **N00t:** yes it’s alice

 **N00t:** at least she cares it’s my birthday

 **N00t:** did you even know, hermann?

 

 **N00t:** did you even care?

* * *

In truth, Hermann has kept his phone on silent without Newton’s constant flow of messages. He checks his phone about an hour after dinner, and sees that the man would prefer to be left alone -- he’s happy for Newton.

It’s late, now, almost 10pm, and later than Hermann is accustomed to beginning his nighttime routine. Newton is, if nothing else, timely, and he expects that Dr. Presser will have made her way back to her own home by this point in the evening. As he approaches the door, he can make out the steady beat of music coming from inside. He knocks cautiously, all too familiar with the consequences of entering unannounced.

“Newton, I know you’re very occupied with not speaking to me, but I need to go to bed. We have a premiere tomorrow. I’m coming in.” Hermann says, unlocking the door.

 _“Cause everytime we touch, I get this feeling, and everytime we kiss I swear I could fly…”_ A woman sings over the thumping beat. The lights are out but the curtains are open, and the city lights gift soft illumination to the room. Newton is nowhere in sight. The bathroom door rests ajar, lights out. Hermann cautiously steps inside.

“Newton?” He calls. Nothing but the music. “Newton, I’m coming into the living room. You had better be decent.”

There, in the living room, stands Newton. He is a dark silhouette against the backdrop of the glowing city and is trembling.

“Newt?” Hermann asks. There’s a loud sniffle.

“Oh, hey Herms,” Newt says, voice watery. “You’re back late.”

“What on earth happened?” Hermann steps closer to Newton, who shrinks back to press himself against the window. Hermann stops in his tracks, not wanting to crowd the man. “How...how was your evening with Dr. Presser?”

The song turns over. This isn’t Newton’s usual playlist for getting ready, so it must be a mix of all his saved music. Copland’s Quiet City plays loudly, far louder than it was ever intended to be. There is nothing but English horn and Newton’s sniffling for several long moments.

“Siri, stop playing.” The music immediately stops. “You know, she came over, tried to convince me that the android should play the whole concert, the usual things you do alone with a woman in your room,” Newton laughs humorlessly. “Told me all about the problems with my old concerts and how to fix them. Told me Liwen _wanted_ me fired from my last gig. But I bet you knew, right?”

He hugs himself, fingers dancing restlessly on his arms. “I thought she liked me for me, but she just wants to use me. What gives? Not even _you_ would do something that low.”

Hermann sighs. “Newton, I must apologize for whatever I did to make you think I would _ever_ willingly sign on to any project dealing with the androids. While artificial intelligences are a hobby, they are not my career. This, this _vendetta_ you think I have is nothing but a fabrication. Please, put it to rest. I was of the belief that you left your job to be a part of this ensemble.”

Newton turns to face Hermann, and Hermann can see glistening tears on his cheeks. “Whatever, man, it’s all in the past now. I quit before those jackoffs could fire me anyway. May as well go out in a blaze of glory and all.” He waves a hand, then swipes under his glasses with his filthy cuff. “Alice really wanted to know about _you._ She wanted all this information about why you wouldn’t record with Shao, your composition process...she spent so much time talking about you that I’m surprised it wasn’t _you_ up here alone with her.”

Hermann takes his handkerchief out of his pocket and offers it to him. Newton laughs.

“Of fucking _course_ you carry a hanky,” He says, scrubbing his face with it. He loudly blows his nose. “You have everything you need with you all the time and you never have to ask anyone for anything. You’re so good they asked you to _compose_ for them. And me? They’ll just wheel in the ‘droid and replace me faster than that!” He snaps his fingers for punctuation.

“Newt, that’s not true --” Hermann begins. Newt shakes his head.

“What if this is all there is, Hermann? I mean, fuck, today’s my birthday, and who cares? Who’s going to notice when I’m gone? I gave everything to Liwen and they make, they _made_ this horrible, awful _android_ that can’t play for its life. Ha, it doesn’t even have one of those!”

“You know I would --”

“The sound? The sound I was so excited for? It’s garbage, Hermann, total fucking _garbage._ It’s like no one at Shao has ever heard a human play.” He shakes his head violently. “Who would want to play with that thing? Alice showed me all these cool tricks it can do but it means jack _squat_ ‘cause they all sound like _shit._ It doesn’t have any emotion. You can teach an AI to play, but you sure as fuck can’t teach it to _feel!_ ”

“As I was saying, I _was_ aware that it was your birthday, and was planning to celebrate with you after the premiere,” Hermann says, catching Newton’s wrist. Newton does not pull away. “That, that concert was a sham, and the android playing where you should be is a joke. Were I capable of doing anything, Newt, I do hope you know that I would. That _thing_ should not be claiming to use your sound. It is a bastardized version of all that you are capable of. It did not learn anything from you and they way you play.”

“It had to, Alice showed me,” Newton insists. “And even if it didn’t learn from _me,_ it learned from _someone._ Maybe it was Alice? I don’t fucking know, dude. I don’t really want to know any more. This whole android thing sucks.”

“Mmm,” Is all Hermann offers.

There is a pregnant silence as they stand, Hermann grasping Newton’s wrist, Newton holding his head in his other hand.

“What...what if this is all there is, Hermann?” Newton asks, quietly. “What if it’s just these concerts and that’s it? What if we’re just chasing that next performance high and then...nothing?”

Hermann draws him in close, cradling his head in one hand and wrapping his other arm around Newton’s body. He can almost _feel_ Newton’s thoughts as they race by on his galloping heart.

“Does the audience really care, or are they just there for the nerd points going to a band concert gives you?” He asks into Hermann’s shoulder. “Does anyone care about us?”

“Of course they care,” Hermann answers, “Of course they’re listening, and they wouldn’t come to concerts if they didn’t sincerely care.” He feels his shoulder growing damp. “Performing isn’t all there is in life, but it certainly is a beautiful thing, is it not? The rush of knowing that you have made a difference in _someone’s_ life is worth the practice every time. Even if it’s only one person, you have touched them in a way that no one else can. We perform for that one person, even if that person is ourselves. Your performance at the mansion touched _me_ so deeply and I, I would change the android out in a heartbeat for you. I hold you in very high esteem, and while you may not believe me now, I hope you can come to trust me again.”

“Really, Herms? That’s really cool of you,” Newton says, pulling away from his spot on Hermann’s shoulder and looking him in the eyes.

“Yes, really. Genuinely.” Hermann smiles. “And Newt...I would care _immensely_ if you were gone.”

He leans in and kisses Newton’s forehead.

Newton gasps softly. Hermann immediately recoils.

“I’m sorry, did I misread the moment?” He asks, nervously scanning Newton’s face. “Newton?”

“No, I mean, not at all, but, um?” Newton stammers, pulling out of the embrace. “No, not you, it’s me, it’s all me. Sorry, Hermann, I’m so sorry.”

He dashes off to the bathroom, door banging shut behind him.

Hermann is silent, awash in the soft glow of the Hong Kong lights

The inhaler sits heavy in his breast pocket.

* * *

19 January 2025  
23:07  
To: [ tchoi@ppwe.org  
](mailto:tchoi@ppwe.org)Subject: Room change (urgent)

 

Hey Tendo,

I’m emailing to request a room change. Nothing’s wrong, I just think Hermann and I would both be better off in different rooms in the next city.

Thanks,

Newt

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The premiere is almost here! The premiere is almost here!
> 
> I've written so much of myself into this - I'm certain you can guess what my favorite pieces are by the way I talk about them! (Fun fact: they're ALL my favorite piece.)
> 
> As soon as this chapter is posted, I'll be responding to all backlogged comments - with the December rush for music and family time, it's been hard to sneak time in for myself (and for you, by extension!). But, here we are, and I couldn't be more pleased with how things are shaping up. 
> 
> Thank you so much for sticking with me! Happiest of new years!


	7. 21 January - PPWE Premiere - Newt

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> "It ain't my fault that I'm out here gettin' loose  
> Gotta blame it on the Goose  
> Gotta blame it on my juice, baby  
> It ain't my fault that I'm out here makin' news  
> I'm the pudding in the proof  
> Gotta blame it on my juice"
> 
> \- Lizzo, "Juice"

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> In this chapter:
> 
> [First Suite in Eb for Military Band - Gustav Holst](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=fLbP6qpI1YI)  
> I. Chaconne  
> II. Intermezzo  
> III. March
> 
> Wine-Dark Sea: Symphony for Band - John Mackey  
> I. Hubris  
> II. Immortal thread, so weak  
> [III. The attentions of souls](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=A-iFVjuFQro)
> 
>  
> 
> [Fantasia and Fugue in C minor - J.S. Bach (arr. Elgar, trans. Nowlin)](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=id6Yoh2gLd8&feature=youtu.be)
> 
>  
> 
>  
> 
> Rating has gone up, y'all. The tag update on this chapter was MASSIVE. This chapter has explicit sexual content.

20 January 2025  
05:15  
To: ngeiszler@ppwe.org  
Subject: Room change (urgent)

Good morning, Newt --

Are you alright? Everything okay with Hermann?

In order to process a room change, there’s paperwork that needs to be done. Let’s talk over breakfast and you can tell me what happened.

Yours,

 

Tendo

 

* * *

 

20 January 2025  
05:43  
To: tchoi@ppwe.org  
Subject: Room change (urgent)

Any way we can keep this off the books? More trouble than it’s worth tbh. 

 

* * *

 

20 January 2025  
06:02  
To: ngeiszler@ppwe.org  
Subject: Room change (urgent)

Hello, Newt --

I’m coming up now. What’s going on?

* * *

 

20 January 2025

Alice: When can I see you again?  
Alice: Newt?  
Alice: My team is going to be in every day until the premiere is done. Maybe we can get lunch? Alice: Or dinner?  
Alice: Maybe you can invite Hermann along this time :)

 

Alice: You two are a thing, right? You wouldn’t shut up about him last time.  
Alice: Bring him with you!

 

Alice: <3

 

Newt: yeah  
Newt: dinner sounds great, alice

 

* * *

 

**21 January 2025**

Pan Pacific Wind Ensemble Premiere Concert

 

Newt hasn’t done anything to earn Hermann’s trust, ever, and now he’ll never get the chance to.

He gives the man his inhaler, then turns around and accuses him of plotting with Liwen Shao. He flirts with Hermann for over a month, then runs away the moment his affections are returned. He took the word of one gold shoe-wearing asshole and now Hermann won’t even look at him. He stole Hermann’s music and now will never get to show him how good his piece can really be because Hermann wouldn’t care. He runs away the moment Hermann kisses him and doesn’t send replies to Hermann’s frantic apology messages.

Yeah, Newt’s a shitty friend.

But the show must go on, and in less than twelve hours, the show will very much be going and Newt very much will be on the program. He knocks back his anxiety medication (he’s been better about it the last couple days, even setting three alarms to be sure he takes the pills at the right time of day, paranoia isn’t a good look on anyone) and sighs heavily.

Fuck.

As he’s loading the last of his trumpets into his case, he has an idea. He shoots a message off to Alice, wicked smile on his face. He roots around in his tuxedo pocket for a business card and -- success!

He dials the number and crosses his fingers.

* * *

Concert Program

First Suite in E-flat -- Gustav Holst

  1. Chaconne
  2. Intermezzo
  3. March



Wine-Dark Sea -- John Mackey

  1. Hubris
  2. Immortal thread, so weak
  3. The attentions of souls



Fantasia and Fugue in C minor -- J.S. Bach (arr. Elgar, trans. Newlan)

Intermission

The Handwriting of God -- Hermann Gottlieb

  1.  First Law of Thermodynamics
  2. Inertia
  3. Sparks
  4. That which lies beyond science



* * *

Newt sent in his audition materials last June when the sun was high in the sky, and had imagined a life better than the one at his orchestra position. Making music had become a chore and had lost its shimmering, effervescent quality. Practicing the excerpts required, creating the audition tape, and finally dropping it off at the post office with a “yeah, dude, expedited shipping to Hong Kong” had been a long-awaited rush. He’d quit days before he’d received Tendo’s first letter, and threw himself headlong into choosing the right concerto to feel _alive_ again two short days later. Music had come back to life in those late hours, pouring out of speakers in his apartment, whisking him through Boston in the swirling snow. Dozens of scores piled up on his desk, coffee table, bathroom magazine rack, dining table, and every music stand in the apartment. Sheet music sat next to the tub, was propped up in the kitchen by the slow cooker, floated out the car window. All of it was lit by the steady glow of his phone, coming alive with messages from Hermann, signals from a calm port that everything was going to be okay, and this leap was the right choice to make.  
  
It is unfathomable to be staring at a rapidly-filling house now, seven months later, half the world away from home. Evening has come early in Hong Kong and his pulse beats wildly in his ears as he stands backstage, waiting for the clear to take the stage and begin warming up. Tendo gives a thumbs up and the slow trickle begins.

Someone clears their throat behind him. Newt turns, knowing who it has to be -- and he’s right, it’s Hermann. “Well, best of luck tonight, Newton.”

Newt flushes bright pink. “Yeah, thanks dude, you too. Go get ‘em with that premiere!” He responds weakly, holding his hand out for a high five. Hermann smiles tightly, patting Newt’s hand instead of taking the high five, and walks on stage.

Without the saggy slacks and shapeless sweaters, Hermann has a _rockin_ body. Like, he has a _butt_ and _hips_ and _shoulders_ and a graceful _neck._ Newt was swimming in anxiety when last Hermann wore a tux and could barely appreciate the work of _art_ wearing a _tuxedo_ as he saunters onto the stage. Maybe he doesn’t saunter. Maybe? He sure as hell makes that short walk seem like a sultry saunter in those well-cut pants, god _damn.  
_

Alice waves from the adjacent door across the stage, bright green curls bouncing in enthusiasm. Newt raises a hand in return. She hasn’t noticed yet, which, thank _god_ for that small favor. She blows him a kiss, red lips wide with a smile.

“Fortune favors the brave,” Newt whispers and strides onto the stage.

Tendo is seated at the gorgeous Bösendorfer piano Liwen had commissioned a decade prior. The lid is all the way up; Tendo is only on stage to warm up and manage the ensemble onto the stage, and will leave until the Mackey. He nods to Newt and gestures for him to come over.

“This whole thing is about Alice, hm?” He asks, still playing. “Coulda just told me, Newt. Just tell me tomorrow if you still want the change, yeah?”

They’d spoken yesterday at length about everything with Hermann; Tendo had nodded along and written notes while Newt rambled for what felt like hours. There had been no rehearsal this morning, just new parts to pick up for a tour stop several cities in the future, and Newt had avoided his phone except to talk to Alice today.

“Can we talk later, dude? Kinda big thing happening if you didn’t notice.” Newt says, fiddling with his tie. Tendo nods, smiling mischievously.

“Anytime you need to talk, brother, and whenever you’re ready.” He replies. Newt walks to his seat and sits.

The final time he’d performed with the orchestra, it was a soul-crushing Bruckner program. Not that Newt doesn’t love Bruckner, but the angry rumors and disrespect had finally gotten under his skin, and having to grind through the equivalent of a ton of bricks sucked ass. He’d quit in a shouting match with the director and conductor, raining insults and curses down on both.

There’s not a doubt in his mind as he does a final warm-up and tune that this is where he belongs. This ensemble, this premiere, this music -- all of it has become home in a few brief weeks. He’ll apologize to Hermann after the concert for being a total jerk last night and explain his whack-ass brain. Excitement drowns his anxiety out entirely, and he’s certain for the first time in ages that he’s truly done the right thing.

Tonight he basks in the warm glow of the stage lights, drinking in the _rightness_ of the world. Here, he shines. Here is Hermann. Here is where he has belonged all along.

He’s ready.

As if on cue, the house lights dim. Tendo’s voice booms through the hall, reminding the audience to silence their cell phones, that recording and taking photos is strictly prohibited, and where to find the exits. Newt feels the calm dust of routine settle over his vibrating bones as Tendo’s disembodied voice continues, thanking Shao Industries for their sponsorship, reciting the ensemble’s mission of global peace.

Pentecost takes the stage in a wash of applause. He bows deeply, one hand on the railing of the podium. He steps up, raises his baton, and they dive in.

First Suite is a meditation on playing the trumpet, the tonal appetizer to the feast of Wine-Dark Sea. Clocking in at over a hundred years old, Newt feels the tide of myriad trumpet and cornet players before him entering on these gentle consonances, taking the baton the low brass pass off to them. It’s a harmless melody, repeated fourteen times in a variety of styles, endlessly transforming and growing. Newt thinks about the musician he’s been as he’s played this melody: the high school kid looking to show off, the first year of college, batteries of auditions for potential conductors of ensembles, being that conductor and his first time on the podium, endless concerts thereafter.

The piece flies by in a blur of warm colors and consonance -- Holst is too far on the classical end of neoclassical for delicious dissonances. Mackey has no such compunctions -- what would Wine-Dark Sea even _be_ without dissonance? -- and Newt is almost bouncing out of his chair in delight to play this piece.

Pentecost gives a brief history of the symphony, and a summary of its narrative. It’s a concert of outright bangers, and this piece is just the beginning.

Wine-Dark Sea begins with a unison statement of the theme from the French horns, punctuated menacingly by dissonant entrances from the trumpets -- a charge Newt is delighted to lead. The dissonance is rich with foreboding, ominous energy, but the fanfare continues proudly on. Odysseus, glut with spoils from the Trojan War, sails home on the seas of victory; he’ll plunder at every port of call with his bawdy crew, taking what he pleases.

The trumpets take command of the melody, confident in their journey, ignoring the warning signs of angry dissonances in all directions. Newt knows the disaster of this story and the critical lack of foresight on Odysseus’s part, but can only sail forth, blinded by hubris. The trombones join, swaying with swagger and confidence. It can’t last: they’ve called the attention of the gods, and Zeus delivers punishment. In a frenzy of percussion and staccato woodwinds, the ship drowns, and its entire crew with it.

Only Odysseus is left alive, shipwrecked and alone on the wine-dark sea he once sailed with such power and pride. Newt inserts his mute as quietly as he can; Tendo and the harpist brush chords as the ocean pools around Odysseus. The once mighty theme has been reduced to Newt, playing alone above the miasma of piano chords, and French horns punctuating it with dissonant drops downward. There is no longer comfort to be found on these waters.

Like Odysseus, Newt has no one to blame but himself for landing in unfriendly waters, alone and adrift.

But, the harp begins anew, tonal and soft: movement two, the movement of Kalypso’s broken heart. Seven years together, and Odysseus remembers his wife and the life he had before washing up on the shores of Kalypso’s island home. In one night, she weaves the tapestry of her love into a sail so that Odysseus might return home, an unparalleled act of love that Odysseus all but ignores as he sails forth once again.

Newt’s not going to make the mistake of not looking back. He sneaks a glance at Hermann, who is deeply focused in his music, oblivious to the gaze upon him. Hermann had looked back after Newt ran, Hermann tried to make things right and Newt kept on rejecting him. He’s got news for Hermann today, and man, is it gonna rock his world.

In the music, Odysseus sails onward, renewed and rejuvenated by his time on the island. He has been lost, and finds himself again, but must truly make his peace with the angry ocean before he can return home. Newt focuses once more and welcomes the music as it swallows him alive.

The glittering, calm sea of the island cannot last: Odysseus must sail beyond the edge of the world in order to return to his wife, and must accept the changes he has undergone. The harpist uses picks, and Tendo brushes his hands across the exposed wires of the piano; Yancy bows the gong and Mako rolls quietly on the bass drum, turned on its side to enable her to play with two hard rubber mallets. Aggression sparks in the air, spreading and catching across the waiting instruments. Close, dissonant seconds are held throughout the ensemble, new chords fading in as others fade away, murky waters stirring as they sail toward the edge of existence. Literal metal chains are dragged across the tam-tams.

Then: fragments of melodies from the first movement in the high winds and a floating, taunting melody from the clarinet. It’s intangible and ephemeral, floating by Odysseus’s boat and continuing on, mocking him. This section has always sounded like something out of the _Wizard of Oz_ to Newt, like the Wicked Witch is going to get a house dropped on her out of a tornado at any moment. The clarinet melody is frenzied and unresolved, spooling and unspooling, dancing just out of reach.

The first Dies Irae whispers come from the flutes -- a centuries-old melodic fragment from a fourteen-minute chant of the same name from the original written, recorded requiem mass -- the dead have come to flock around the boat, gathering in numbers as more and more woodwinds join in the Dies Irae. The brass moan along, and Tendo pounds out angry descending steps on the piano.

There was never a need to record for Liwen Goddamn Shao, never a need to pour himself into a nonexistent void, no demand needing to be filled by androids. Hermann may have been scared that the androids would cause the death of the ensemble, but Newt has felt the truth now: the androids will cause the death of their souls, the death of everything that gives music its _life._ Well, it’s sure as hell not gonna happen on his watch.

The saxes take charge for a brief moment -- it’s the melodic percussion pulling the ensemble along, and the high winds begin their run as the faceless demons begin to shout for Odysseus and make demands he will never be able to fulfill. Newt feels his plight -- he’ll never be able to fulfill the angry, soulless void the androids demand of him, and he won’t let them tear him away from this. The low brass give their big hits and Newt joins the clarinets on the Dies Irae. Swirling currents move around Odysseus as he nears the veil at the edge of the world. He plays motif after motif of the Dies Irae as the percussion beat relentlessly, giving way finally to the furious, shrill, screaming, shrieking demons of the high woodwinds as they run in contrary motion and --

Odysseus pierces the veil, seeing the light of home beyond the edge of the world, having given in. Newt sails at their helm in the trumpet section, leading the melodic charge of the first movement’s theme returned in all its glory by the brass. The woodwind demons continue to scream wildly, percussion driving them home. Newt calls out the Dies Irae, filled with blistering, newfound pride and sparkling humility. The ensemble hits their final chord, optimistic and looking forward into the golden light of home.

How could he have known recording for Shao would have cost so much of what makes music _musical?_ He’d sailed out, buoyed on his own ego, and has crossed now through the soulless screams of the androids. Home is ahead, and home can only be one person now: Hermann.

Newt is still in the throes of the piece when Pentecost gestures for him to stand and take his solo applause. He comes to when he realizes Hermann is looking at him, curious and impressed and something more -- but what? He sits back down and swaps his music over to the Bach.

Bach is a perpetual motion machine of endless notes, endless chords, moving together like a perfectly oiled clock. It’s an emotional wind down from the intensity of Wine-Dark Sea, a place to catch his breath before the storm breaks lose when Liwen and Alice find out what’s happened to the android.

Or at least, what Newt _hopes_ has happened to the android.

The fantasia ends and the fugue begins; a simple melody passed between sections of the ensemble and embellished. Bach would probably spin in his grave to find out that some composer in the distant future had set his music for something other than organ, but Newt’s too wound up to care about an old dead white guy. Focus: this is the moment.

More applause and Tendo’s voice announcing intermission as the lights come up. Tendo himself is dancing eagerly at the stage door, flagging Pentecost down, one of Liwen’s cronies standing with him, glowering. Newt troops offstage through the other door, careful to take everything with him as though he’s done for the performance.

Backstage, it’s chaos.

Liwen and four of her techs tap wildly on computers, while another three swarm the android. Alice is among those on the android; Tendo, Pentecost, and the tech (Dr. Lim?) walk over solemnly. Liwen barks directions. Newt turns and walks away.

There are fifteen minutes until Hermann gets up and premieres his piece. Newt checks his phone and finds a lone message awaiting him from an unknown sender: _All taken care of. Pleasure doing business. We’ll be in touch.  
_

“Newt, a word.” Pentecost says. Newt looks over his shoulder and stops. Pentecost approaches him. “If the android isn’t functional in five minutes, we’ll be performing without it. You would do well to get the music from Tendo and start preparing.”

“You got it, boss man.” Newt salutes and turns away. Tendo hurries after him, outpacing him rapidly.

Tendo grabs into a bin and pulls forth a full set of Hermann’s most recent parts and hands the first trumpet part to Newt. “You gonna be good, brother?”

“Peachy, Tendo. You should go see if the Shao crew needs you for anything.” Newt has planted himself to read through the piece as though it’s his first time. “Just holler if you need me.”

Tendo nods, all business, and checks his watch. “Thirteen minutes until intermission ends. Hermann will be ready to go in twelve and a half. Hang backstage until we give you a signal, okay?”

He walks back toward the hub of activity around the android and Newt begins to play.

Newt has spent hours with this piece both in and out of the scheduled rehearsals. He’s had to spend late, late nights and early, early mornings practicing this piece to avoid Hermann’s attention, and he _probably_ hasn’t communicated his sudden retreat very well in retrospect. None of that’s going to matter soon when he blows Hermann’s socks off on this premiere. Hermann’s going to be so stoked and _so_ surprised.

Newt’s sound is lost in the wash of conversation and tuning. Hermann is nowhere to be seen; he’s probably holed up in a practice room in the basement, poring over his score for the last time before the public hears it. Newt can’t _wait_ to play this with an ensemble, with _this_ ensemble, with Hermann conducting. He’s learned so much about who Hermann is through listening and reading the program notes, but to be invited inside his _head_ as he conducts is like a dream.

Hopefully Hermann wants him there, too.

The ensemble is filing back onto the stage. The android is gone, its crew with it -- presumably onto the stage, and restored. Hermann walks along the distant side of the wide backstage area, lips moving incomprehensibly, a long baton turning in Hermann’s long fingers. The stage doors close as the house lights dim; Newt stops playing to listen to the announcements.

“Thank you, again, for joining us for the premiere of this monumental ensemble,” Hermann says, amplified through the hall and piped backstage. “When I was contacted regarding a commission for such an occasion, I could only think of evolution’s struggles and eventual triumphs, and the struggles yet to come for mankind and our own creations. We are honored to be joined by Ms. Liwen Shao this evening.”

Pleasant applause. Liwen is probably taking a bow.

“Thank you, Dr. Gottlieb. Due to unforeseen circumstances, our flagship android will not be performing this evening. This is merely a struggle that we will overcome.” Scattered laughter from the audience. The stage door cracks open and Tendo waves him onstage. “Just a moment, please, while we remove the android from the stage.”

Liwen, Alice, and the scientists carry the defunct android through the open door. Alice looks dejected, but gives Newt a small thumbs up.

Newt grabs the trumpets he needs and his own copy of the music from his gig bag and races onstage. Hermann is talking again, explaining the central motif and its importance. He’s changed from his tuxedo shirt and jacket into a Mandarin jacket, and is striking in his all-black look; Newt barely hears what he’s saying for staring.

Hermann concludes and takes the podium. Shock registers on his face as though he’s just realized what’s really going to happen now that the android is gone -- Newt smiles broadly.

Hermann gives the tiniest shake of his head, then is still. He raises his arms, gives a gesture for three, inhales on four and they’re off with the motif. They stop immediately after the five rapid notes, caught on a bed of whole notes sustained by the low reeds and middle brass. The first clarinet begins the motif anew, and the saxophones are quick to pick it up. As the constant motion reaches a peak in the high winds, the brass enter and dominate the sound, taking over the motif and making it their own. Newt feels the tremors of life bursting forth from nothingness, making its presence known.

Practicing a piece without the ensemble doesn’t do justice to the energy Hermann has captured in his writing -- so much lives beyond the solo trumpet part. Not even sitting in rehearsals, hearing everyone else play with the android, compares, and it never will.

He can feel _Hermann,_ his triumphs and failures and what it means to be here, tonight, conducting this piece. The ensemble is different, too, and Newt’s been at enough rehearsals to know how different the android made them sound. Where before there was trepidation, now there is shining confidence, a fullness that’s been lacking in so many rehearsals. He feels it in the way Hermann gestures and conducts -- he’s been more reserved, and now is leaning in fully to the waves of sound as they wash through him. Joy is the wrong word; this piece is electricity made playable, it is lightning captured in a bottle, loosed upon this concert hall. Newt soars above the cacophony, pushed to the extreme of his range, floating on the knowledge that he’s here and performing this piece.

It’s a frenzy of sound, the motif overlapping itself, being played dissonantly, all untamed and beyond focus -- Hermann stands with baton poised, unmoving -- and with a unison _CRASH_ from the percussion and a nod from Hermann, the first movement ends.

The second movement is the physical phenomenon of having been slowed down so suddenly. There’s little direction, just an abyss of notes, small fragments that can never coalesce into the whole of the five note motif. Newt’s felt this way a lot over the last week, between fighting with Hermann (okay, that was a little one sided), accusing Hermann of actively trying to dismantle the PPWE as they know it (really one sided, Newt’s noticing a theme), leading Alice along to find out all the inner workings of the android (that was _pretty_ badass), and calling Hannibal Chau and asking him to do a hit on the android. All of this in a haze of anxiety that he may or may not have been properly medicating for.

The precursors of life, as Hermann’s program notes call them, arrive with the third movement. There are new motifs taking shape throughout the ensemble, but none can succeed -- they’re battled out of the way by bigger, brassier motifs, or killed by fast, wily new melodic fragments from the woodwinds. It’s a movement designed to make Mackey look _tonal,_ and it does such a wonderful job of it. This movement moves without pause into the fourth.

Newt and Hermann lock eyes as Hermann cues him and Newt _jumps_ at the energy between them. He’s hyperaware of Hermann and of the emotion of this moment, the victory snatched from Liwen and the android triumphed over. Their eyes are still locked as Newt plays the motif, then plays the beautiful, snarky variations Hermann has written. His sound breaches through the fortissimo of the ensemble: he sings in triumph over the brewing war beneath him in the French horns, ignores the frantic call of the percussion, and as he breathes to rejoin the ensemble in the climactic war within the music, he knows so Hermann so well, so intimately, and pours his heart out for the music. Hermann, too, gestures wildly, self lost amid the music he has wrung from his soul.

The final unison, polytonal statement of the motivic theme comes, the clarinet and piccolo at its helm, Newt spending himself rapidly as the war rages on. Unlike Wine-Dark Sea, Hermann’s piece has a hard stop -- straight into a wall, with no resolution. The audience is on their feet, screaming their applause. Hermann bows graciously to the ensemble, gesturing for soloists to stand; he calls for Newt last, their eyes lingering on one another. Hermann felt it too. The entire ensemble rises and Hermann turns to the audience, bowing deeply.

Pentecost walks on stage and shakes Hermann’s hand. They both bow. Liwen joins them and they take another bow, the audience still roaring their approval. Minutes go by and the spell is finally broken, lights coming up in the house. Someone claps Newt on the back.

“ _Killer_ sightreading, Newt!” Raleigh enthuses. “Twelve minutes and a huge solo. Great work, man.”

“Hey thanks, dude!” Newt says, beaming. Mako gives him a double thumbs up. Even _Chuck_ nods toward him in approval.

Hermann has a line of ensemble members who are giving him their congratulations, so Newt makes his way to where is gig bag is stored and puts his trumpets away. He can’t go talk to Hermann too soon, or Hermann might know, but if he goes too late, then Hermann might already be gone and they’re probably not going to be in the same room any more.

Fortune favors the brave.

Newt marches onto the stage. There are still a few people hanging around, mostly talking amongst themselves, snapping pictures to post to social media. Newt pushes chairs aside to get to where Hermann is finishing up with someone -- one of the other bassoonists? -- and Hermann turns to him.

“Newton, I wanted to --”

Newt grabs him by the lapels and kisses Hermann with everything he’s got.

Hermann is puzzled at first, but then enthusiastically returns the kiss, circling his arms around Newt and holding him close. Newt’s aware of clapping and whistles as they pull away, Hermann still holding him close.

“Dude, shut up, I think I’m in love with you and we just had the best goddamned premiere _ever_ and that stupid android didn’t play,” Newt says, smiling all the while. He’s warm with blush, and Hermann is, too. Hermann takes his face between his hands.

“Insufferable, prideful, _wonderful_ man, I’ve been in love with you for weeks.” Hermann kisses him on the forehead again and yeah, it’s even better this time. “Your playing was immaculate. Beyond what I could have imagined it could be. Newton, thank you.”

Newt grabs him for another kiss, impossibly fond and all but literally glowing.

Hermann breaks away. “I have a few more people to talk with, then we’ll continue, hmm?”

The small gathering left all move quickly, offering congratulations and notes about the performance. Hermann is endlessly gracious to every one of them and Newt can’t get enough of hearing him talk, hearing him be humble and kind and so awesome to every single person who wants to talk. Some of them talk to Newt, too, congratulating him on sightreading a full symphony with only twelve minutes of lead time. Newt’s a fucking rock star! Why couldn’t he do it? And they all laugh.

Newt’s leaning against the piano, emotional energy riding high still. The lid is down, and one of his hands is resting on it. Hermann walks over to him and lays his free hand on top of Newt’s, body close, but not crowding.

“I was going to tell you how sorry I was for misunderstanding our friendship, but it seems that my apology is unnecessary.” Hermann says, voice tender. “Did you...what changed your mind after your birthday?”

“Dude, I’ve been in love with you from like, the fourth day we were messaging one another,” Newt laughs. “I’ve needed to apologize for days. I’ve been a total dick to you and not given you any explanation. I gave you my inhaler not only for my asthma but for --”

“Your anxiety,” Hermann finishes. Newt’s eyebrows fly up in surprise. “I worked it out during the preview concert. Your concerto, the second movement. Perhaps not the details of it, but I knew.”

“You -- of course you figured it out. Uh, that’s not it, but yes, I also needed to tell you about that?” Newt says.

“Then what, Newton, did you need to impart so desperately?” Hermann asks, smiling warmly.

“Dr. Geiszler, Dr. Gottlieb, a word?” Liwen calls from backstage. Newt and Hermann look back to her in tandem. She’s already turned away, moving into the shadows. Newt can see Pentecost and Tendo standing and waiting for them, as well. There’s no fucking question what Liwen wants to talk about, and he swallows anxiety as Hermann guides him gently backstage.

Liwen, Alice, and the tech team are standing around the robot, talking in hushed tones. Wires and laptops are everywhere, and the robot sits in a chair, slumped forward with the tangle of wires connecting to its neck. Eerie blue glows from its eyes, reflecting ominously from the trumpet it holds. They gather around the fallen -- _comrade? Hellish fiend? Monster?_ \-- android. Liwen places a hand on its shoulder, the most tender gesture Newt has seen her bestow.

“We have decided to pull the androids from the remainder of the concert tour. Our records indicate that the system was hacked from inside the concert hall, during the first half of the performance. We will spend the necessary time to improve the function of the android, as well as make it impermeable to outside influence.” She announces to the gathered group. “This does mean, Dr. Geiszler, that you will be performing Dr. Gottlieb’s piece in future cities. Dr. Gottlieb, we will be commissioning another work in the future. Mr. Pentecost, Mr. Choi, all impacted music will need to be changed. I trust that it will be done and in folders by the morning, yes?”

Tendo looks to Pentecost, who gives a single, sharp nod. “The pleasure is ours, Ms. Shao.”

As if that’s some kind of cue the engineering team is trained to, they begin to collect their technical accoutrements and pack them into crates. Pentecost rattles several pieces off to Tendo, who writes them on a notepad, then shoves the list into the breast pocket of his jacket. Liwen’s phone rings and she steps away from her team; Pentecost and Tendo make their exit.

“Newton?” Hermann asks, as though from a reality where this wasn’t happening. “Newton, you had something to tell me?”

“Uh, probably not here, dude,” Newt says, ears still ringing. (maybe Newt’s first thing to do to Hermann is tell him about the malfunction and who caused it?) Hermann’s eyes smolder.

“Oh? Well, then let me collect my things, and we’ll go somewhere more...private?” Hermann squeezes Newt’s elbow and walks backstage, spring unmistakable in his step.

_Fuck. Fuckfuckfuckfuckfuckfuckfuckfuckfu--_

Newt’s trapped in the horrid limbo of so turned on he can’t speak, and so anxious he doesn’t _want_ to speak, and so relieved that Hermann returns his affections that every single word has evaporated from his miserable little brain. Doesn’t he still have his own shit backstage to get?

Yes, he does. He books it backstage to grab his gig bag, carelessly shoving his folder in the outside pocket. Whatever.

“Newt?”

Newt whips around to find Alice, eyes puffy and red.

“I just wanted to say congratulations, and to stay in touch. We’re gonna find out who did this, and then you’re gonna _shine_ with our ‘droid.” She smiles. “And stay in touch, okay? I’ll be around for a bunch of stops on the tour, so don’t be a stranger!”

“Uh, yeah, thanks Alice,” Newt says. “What will happen when you find the person, uh, responsible for the, you know, stuff tonight?”

Alice’s face darkens; her shoulders tense and her hands ball into fists. “Leave that to us. We’ll make them pay.”

Newt is going to faint. Right here, right now.

She smiles broadly and relaxes. “But they can’t hurt everything you gave us for the project, so don’t worry. And if you want to help, I’m sure I can ask nicely!”

She turns and waves casually as Hermann walks over. “Ready to head back, Newton?”

Newt nods, tongue thick in his mouth. He slings his gig bag over his shoulder. Hermann offers his elbow for Newt to hold, which Newt graciously accepts, and offers a silent prayer that he won’t knock Hermann to Christmas when he inevitably collapses.

They exit through the stage door into the mild Hong Kong evening. Newt inhales deeply and puts on a shaky smile. Hermann is practically _glowing_ beside him.

“So, uh, that was one hell of a premiere, dude,” Newt offers. Hermann’s smile broadens.

“The piece was how I always envisioned it,” Hermann says, “So rich, teeming with life, and pressing beyond the individual capabilities of the ensemble as a whole. I spent months trying to codify the literal experience of playing in a group into music, and realized I was going about it wrong -- I needed, rather, to make the music _I_ needed, and the sound I desired would follow. The success is thanks, in no small part, to you, Newton.” He blushes. “While the piece is, and always will be for the Shao Corporation, _you_ are what brought it to life. Hearing my music so lacking in life was draining, and still, I had to carry on as though nothing was amiss. _You_ completed the puzzle, Newt. You, and what makes you human.

“I was wrong to allow this piece to be played by the android, and hope you can find it in your heart to forgive me, and forgive me for ever questioning your involvement with the project. I know how important it was to you. I felt you, Newt, in that solo, felt your heart beating and your sound pour away and become so much more -- I heard the _divine_ tonight, and it is thanks to you.”

Hermann stops, tears glittering in his eyes. He places his bassoon down, and cups Newt’s face with his free hand. “Thank you, Newt, for all that you have done for me.”

His kiss is infinitely gentle and sweet. Newt’s _burning_ under his touch, but still squeezes out a smile. (It’s the _least_ he can do after _that_.)

Hermann picks the bassoon up. “I wonder what caused that malfunction, though. The premieres of both the piece and the android were well publicized, but who would do such a thing?”

They step through the doors of the hotel and cross the lobby in silence. As the doors of the elevator swish open, then closed again, Newt inhales.

“You’re gonna be like, really angry, Herms, but I kind of know something about that?” Newt talks rapidly, afraid to lose his nerve. “Um, would you be upset if I was maybe sort of kind of just a teensy little bit involved?”

The glittering quality of Hermann’s eyes evaporates. “Newton. What do you know?”

“Remember Hannibal? You know, big mobster dude --”

“Yes, Newton, I remember Mr. Chau.”

The elevator arrives to their floor and they step out.

“I maybe, hypothetically, called him just for a few minutes earlier --”

“Newton. What have you done?”

“And asked him for a favor?”

Hermann is silent as he unlocks their room.

“Surprise?” Newt shrugs with a “please don’t hate me” face plastered on. Hermann is silent as he toes his shoes off. Newt takes his gig bag off and shucks out of his tux and vest, then begins undoing his tie.

“You knew.” Hermann states. “You _knew_ this was going to happen.”

“I, um, am pretty much the reason it happened, yeah.” Newt says, deflating. Hermann unbuttons the top two buttons of his jacket. Silence.

“You do realize, Newton, the precarious position you have placed our _entire organization_ in, and the personal jeopardy you could have placed _my career_ in, had anyone discovered the truth? Did you think for a moment what the ramifications would be, rather than your own self-serving agenda?” Hermann steps toward Newt, crowding him. “No, of course you didn’t. You only thought of yourself, as ever.”

“Weren’t you _just_ saying how I completed the piece and brought the divine in?” Newt fires back, puffing up to his full size and staring Hermann down. “You didn’t have to see your own face in those rehearsals, _Hermann_ , when you looked catatonic at that fucking android, and all Alice did was laugh.” He jabs a finger into Hermann’s chest. “I didn’t put any of us in any kind of danger. I saved us from sounding fucking awful.”

“What happens when Ms. Shao finds out? What happens when all signs point to you? How will you avoid her wrath then, Newton?”

“Maybe I won’t! Maybe I’ll just live caged under Shao for the rest of my life! Fine! Whatever! Maybe they’ll throw you in to keep me company, _Doctor_ I Hate Androids Gottlieb!”

“And what if they did, Newton? What would they possibly charge me with?” Hermann is still outraged. They have never been so physically _close_ when they fight, Newt notices.

“Conspiracy! You hated the androids from the start! You--” And is cut off by Hermann’s lips crashing on to his, hard enough to bruise. Hermann gives him an impolite shove backwards, and Newt tips back onto the bed, arms flailing.

“They could charge me with anything and it would be true,” He says, towering over Newt. He places his good knee between Newt’s, leaning forward over him. “And it would have been worth it for the way you plated my piece tonight.”

He closes the distance between them, kissing Newt for all he’s worth. Newt returns the enthusiasm, lips parting to allow Hermann entrance. Their kiss is full of fire, full of that life that Hermann was trying to distill onto paper. Newt takes Hermann’s face in his hands and tugs him ever closer, reaching down to help Hermann out of the jacket.

“Little warm in here for a jacket, Herms,” He says. Hermann obliges him and Newt slips the jacket off, tossing it to the ground. “Relax, I’m sure Tendo has some kind of dry cleaning armada and it’ll be fine and un-wrinkled by tomorrow.”

Hermann doesn’t respond, choosing instead to grab Newt into another kiss, which is totally fine. (Newt’s always known that mouth is good for something, and woodwind players are all good at tonguing, right? Wink wink, haha!)

Newt starts unbuttoning his shirt without breaking the kiss; Hermann brushes his hands away to do it himself, nimbly stripping Newt of the garment. Newt is more than happy to comply as Hermann tugs his undershirt off, adding it to the growing pile of clothes next to the bed.

“Your tattoos,” Hermann breathes as he removes his own shirt. “They all work together?”

“Uh, yeah! Want to hear all about them?” Newt asks, cocky smile creeping onto his face. He rolls Hermann so he’s on his back, Newt straddling them, feeling the seams straining in his pants. Fucking whatever, tux pants can be shipped same day, this --

This is worth way more than a stupid pair of dress pants.

Hermann doesn’t seem to mind his new vantage point, and Newt can feel the hardening bulge underneath him, too.

“I’ve been waiting to see _these_ again,” Hermann flicks the two rings in Newt’s nipples. Newt throws his head back and groans, _loud._ Hermann smirks, repeating the gesture, stroking the sensitive skin around the piercings. “I’ve thought about these every day since we met. Since you walked out in nothing but a towel, so self assured, so sinfully _beautiful._ How do you live with it, Newton?”

Hermann takes one nipple in his mouth, tongue playing with the ring, teeth tugging ever so gently. Newt’s going to cream his pants like a teenager. “How do _you_ live with being so impossibly fucking hot, Hermann? Walking around looking like a damn _dream_ in that tux, gorgeous ass to the audience. I bet you love _ahhhhhhhhhh,”_ Newt moans as Hermann drags his fingers over Newt’s rock-hard cock through his pants.

“Love what, Newton?” Hermann undoes Newt’s belt. “Love watching you ruin months of planning for a moment of glory? Love hearing your triumphant sound? Love this?’ He yanks the belt free, going for Newt’s fly. “All of it.”

Newt reciprocates the gesture as fast as he humanly can, Hermann’s cock springing free of its confinement, straining Hermann’s boxers, and --

“Holy shit dude, you’re fucking _jacked,”_ Newt says in awe. “You’ve been hiding this for two weeks? Where? _How?”_

Hermann lovingly pulls Newt out of his briefs; Newt nearly whites out at the sight of Hermann’s long fingers on his dick. He’s jerked it no small number of times over the last two weeks to this image, and allows Hermann to guide him to lay down on the bed once again. Newt wiggles free of his pants and underwear as Hermann’s fingers dance possessively on him. As Newt yanks his socks off, Hermann turns his attention to the tattoos covering Newt’s thighs, tracing his fingers along them.

“Were they painful?” He asks, laying between Newt’s legs.

“No _ooooooahhhhhh,_ ” Newt moans as Hermann trades fingers for his tongue, following the lines of the tattoors with his tongue. “I mean, not worse than anything else? It’s the shading that’s the worst, you’re there for _hours_ and it feels like your skin is getting scraped off the whole time, like being in rehearsal with a fucking robot.”

Hermann bites down. “Okay! Okay, won’t talk about it!”

Hermann sucks a spot on the inside of Newt’s thigh in approval, tongue soothing the bite marks. Newt tugs Hermann’s hair in encouragement. “Herms, your piece? Was so fucking good. I, _ahhhhhhhhh,_ could feel you too? Like, not just in that solo, but that whole piece is covered in Hermann. Every note sings who wrote it.”

“You didn’t sight read that part, did you?” Hermann asks, hands carrying his work on.

“What will you do if I say no?” Newt returns, cock dripping.

“Then I’ll have to reward your forward thinking,” Hermann says and takes Newt wholly into his mouth.

The universe narrows to Hermann’s mouth and skilled tongue as he sucks Newt’s dick. Newt is vocal about his pleasure, moaning loudly. “Herms, _Hermann,_ oh my god, I’m going to come, you’re so good, you’re so perfect, _holy fuck!”  
_

Hermann pulls off with a loud _pop._ “You wouldn’t happen to have come prepared, Newton?”

Newt flies off the bed and runs into the bathroom, frantically digging through his toiletries; he pulls a travel-sized bottle of lube (his emergency bottle, the other has been in rotation, but Hermann doesn’t need to know that) and a condom out of the bottom of his bag.

In the time that it took him to find his prize, Hermann has stripped, and is laying gloriously naked on the bed, one hand lazily palming his hard cock, a pillow under his hips. Newt gulps painfully at the sight -- Hermann steals a glance toward Newt, looking nervous for a split second, then smiles again.

“Everything you had hoped for?” Hermann asks as Newt climbs onto the bed. Newt nods, struck wordless once more. “I think it might be easier for you to ride me, if you’re comfortable with that?”

“ _Comfortable with?”_ Newt asks, already uncapping the lube. “D’you want me to prep myself, or --”

Hermann switches from palming to stroking. “Prepare yourself. And tell me about the concert.”

“Oh?” Newt kneels next to Hermann, working one finger into his ass. “Uh, I play trumpet? And kicked a robot’s ass. It was a pretty good night, if you ask me!”

Hermann rolls his eyes and begins running a hand up and down Newt’s side. “Do elaborate.”

Newt can’t finish this fast enough to get on that dick. “I, I called Hannibal this afternoon and talked about what was going to happen tonight and he, like, agreed to do it? I was feeling like a really shitty friend after my birthday and had to make it up to you somehow. So, playing your piece was my like, best shot at what I could do to apologize?” He moans; Hermann pauses his stroking and grips Newt’s hip. “And holy shit, Herms, playing your piece with the ensemble was so much. You felt that spark during that solo? I did, too. I might not know _exactly_ what it means but I know I made the right call and did all the right things by leaving that fucking orchestra and coming here to be in this ensemble and to have the chance to play with you.”

“I accept your apology, Newt,” Hermann manages, tugging Newt closer. “But it would be better if you _showed_ me how much you appreciated my writing. And, perhaps, if we could feel one another in...other ways?”

Newt doesn’t need to be told twice to sling one leg over Hermann and position himself to slide down that massive, engorged cock. Hermann’s not only got the length, but the girth, and Newt revels in the fullness. Hermann’s face is screwed up in pleasure, and Newt’s sure his eyes are crossed as he literally _sings_ a litany of praise for Hermann’s body. He thumbs at Hermann’s nipples, earning him low moans; Hermann grips Newt’s hips and urges him down.

Finally fully seated, Newt takes a moment to take in the view. “Hey Herms?”

“Yes, Newton?” Hermann breathes.

“I’m gonna give you the ride you’ve needed since day one,” And Newt starts bouncing.

Hermann, to his credit, keeps his hold on Newt, maneuvering him up and down. Newt loves the possessive hold. He’s always been a talker during sex, and this is no exception, as praise babbles from his lips, appreciation for Hermann’s dick, all of it.

The heat building low in his belly is unsurprising, and as it grows heavier, Newt leans forward into Hermann and takes hold of his cock. His capacity for speech has been reduced to moans and gasps, and he kisses Hermann, filled with all the words he can’t get out. Hermann returns with equal pleasure, mouth open and tongue ferocious. Newt feels that _something_ jump between them again as he moans with wild abandon into Hermann’s jaw.

“I’m gonna, fuck, Herms, I’m --”

“Keep going, oh please don’t stop, Newt --”

And that’s all it takes for Newt to see stars and come. Hermann is seconds behind, shouting Newt’s name. Newt rolls off and tucks himself against Hermann, desperate for as much skin-to-skin contact as he can handle. Strong arms gather him close.

“You were saying you think you’ve been in love with me since day one?” Hermann is panting. “I think I was in love with you before that, since I began writing that trumpet solo. I think somehow I knew, all along, that it was you who would play it, Newt. And I love you for making it so, so filled with _you.”_

Newt laughs. “I think right now, dude, I’m the one who’s kinda filled with you, if you get my meaning.”

Hermann laughs and playfully swats at him. “Absolutely incorrigible. Completely deranged.”

“I love you too, Herms.”

* * *

Mako Mori paid Tendo Choi $400HKD

[smily emoji] [eggplant emoji] [heart eyes emoji]

 

Raleigh Becket paid Tendo Choi $350HKD

Happened before we left for Beijing

 

Yancy Becket paid Tendo Choi $600HKD

[trumpet emoji] [music note emoji] [fire emoji] [drool face emoji]

 

22 January 2025

Tendoooooo: Pleasure doing business with y’all.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I absolutely NEVER intended to peace out for six months between chapters, but such is life. In that time, I switched tracks about a dozen times for how this would end, and am delighted with the result (and hope you are, too)! I feel so deeply for Newt and for the way he feels in performing Hermann's piece, and what that means in that moment. 
> 
> Thank you for sticking with me and sticking it out! We still have an epilogue left to go ~~and Tendo to spend his hard-earned winnings, ohohoh~~


End file.
